


The Mockingbird

by Tukutz



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Loki, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kid Thor, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Odin's Parenting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Plot, Possessive Thor, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:11:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tukutz/pseuds/Tukutz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under a dying tree, Odin first met Loki. They travelled and shared dreams together. They became brothers in the name of blood. Odin is willing to take a risk against his lifetime work for the change of a new era he believes his son Thor will bring. Loki struggles to agree with Odin’s new-found perspective, he struggles with the loneliness and the ghosts of his past. Most of all, he struggles to bring himself to love Thor, the child born to be loved by all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The sins of our fathers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters have been created by Marvel.  
> Written from Jigilinit's tumblr writing challenge.
> 
> I'm still new with the tags and the system. I haven't been writing much fan fiction, so I'm not familiar with all the jargon. I will try to keep track and update the tags as I add my chapters, as this is a definite slash fiction. My proof reader, @Carlo has had too much vodka when she was going through this at 4 am in the morning. I will endevour to fix any grammatical mistakes when they are found.
> 
> I will not be adding much notes after this, just a little note that the story is based on the movie verse, but the traits and characterizations in my mind that were focused on the latest Loki(Ikol) AOA series issue #15,16,17. It won't obstruct anything with the story or end up becoming too strayed from the movie series though, it will mix with the comic story and mythology.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I appreciate that you gave this a go. Cheers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The snow will only get colder from here.

 

Gods and blood they say, open their eyes when winter ends. Summer starts in a brief whisper or perhaps a groan. Then nothing. Nothing else will come, only summer and spring. The realm never did meet any snow from then on. It remained stopped in everlasting warmth, basking vainly in its glorious gold, undying, immortal.

So death was a peculiar affair. The beings of Midgard know nothing of death. And they feared it. They live with it looming above their heads. Thinks nothing of it until the time is near, then they are petrified. Tear at their loved ones, holding them close as the end comes. Soldiers are different. The only thing that outweighs their need to show fear for their demise are their pride-ridden respect for the Valkyrie.

 

The maidens will descend soon, the clouds are gathering only to part. Loki perceives the lines across the horizon in silence, the earth drowned with mortal blood. The silver tongued god respects the grim sight of a battlefield. No matter how futile he differs to see them for what they are against the other gods.

 

“The crows are gathering, young king.”

The leaner of the two whispers, his scattered ebon hair clawing at the rim of his face. The steel blue gaze of the other boy looked older. Mature, calmer. He said nothing, a battered staff made of bark held stiffly in one hand. The taller youth was missing a single eye, his lone blue iris drinking in the scent of a bloodied battle.

Then the Valkyrie comes. With horns and spears raised high. Their stallions screech across the plains, in a full gallop as majestic as they are terrifying. Odin turns, his cloak leaving a blur within the shadows. The boy will continue on his path, for now. It was a great battle, most brave of many. He was content.

 

“Come Loki. The day is short.”

The green eyed god stares at the young king’s back for a moment. Before he opens his lips, voicing a smooth little whisper heard loud, just as Odin turns his head around.

“Answer my riddle, Odin wanderer.”

 

And with no sound but the fluttering of the wings of crows, the halfling god stretches his lips into a frosted winter of a smile.

“Why do men mourn their dead?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Jötunnar called him the traitor of ice, betrayer of giants, treasonous, foul little creature. Epithets with contempt have no end. The Æsir called him something different, a lie-smith, silver tongue, the god of untruth, mischief, occasionally sorcerer, shifter of shapes.

Loki had no intention of defining himself. Let actions be words, the nimble fingered god with the cold green eyes. His palest of complexion alien among the gods he resided with in Asgard. A sickly withered color of purest black held in his hair, unruled by their law.

 

The first sun he arrived in the daylight of Asgard, he stood in the gaze of Heimdall, beside the victorious Odin god-king from the battle of Jötunnheim. Defeated the great warrior king Laufey, securing the casket of ancient winters, peace for the next millennia safe and sound. But no god recognized the strange lean youth following behind their king, dark, pale, and unfit for the vain sunlight of Asgard.

Loki said nothing. Nothing came of nothing, only presumptions followed once the soldiers settled home. The victory festivities started a line of gossip among the Æsir, of the strange foreign youth, surrounded by a conceited veil of blackness. Yet Odin tolerated him, accepted him, even stood beside him in the entering ceremony, and conversed with him in secret whispers in a foreign language unrecognized by the gods. Their intentions were opaque, cloudy in the grey midst of uncertain hostility.

 

It came as an unexpected surprise when the celebration started, the walk up the golden throne, the pole marches gathered around the Asgardian branch of Yggdrasil to find them both standing together.

When everyone beheld with awe the moment when Odin stood forward the stranger with green eyes, when Odin slashed their hands above the golden horn, pulsing red blood flowing into the inner shard, mixing into the deepest scarlet.

With a silent gasp among the proud Æsir, Odin boomed. His voice ringing across the skies and the lands, under the branches and eyes of the ancients let it be witnessed that Loki, the god of stories was to become one of them, as the sworn blood brother of their god king Odin.

 

Then let them cheer, the loudest of shouts, the singing and bravado echoing across their realm. They celebrated victory, celebrated the new royal blood, roared for the glorious day the gods boasted.

 

_Drowning in their pride._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Traitorous little bitch._

 

Blood pours. Loki bolts open his eyes, breaking in cold sweat that drenches his tunic. He collapses back into the sheets when realization flows, a nightmare plagued his rest. The blood is not there, and yet the foul smell lingers.

Distaste is like a forest fire, Loki thinks. The more you think deeply about it, it remains to burn your thoughts into ashes. Perhaps it had to do with the climate of this wretchedly wonderful realm the gods called Asgard. The land of no winters, the giants called it. The land of never snow, the Kingdom of Gold, Loki scoffed at the sentiment.

 

He remembers the crimson burn in the eyes of Laufey, the stark pale blue consuming every inch of his bones. The moment he locked gazes, for the second time ever in his life, the King of Jötunnheim. Loki blinks wearily, the wicked little feeling at the back of his throat clawing uncomfortably.

The youth stumbles onto the floor, struggling down his bed. Such luxurious furnishing was not planning to grow on him soon. Exhausted and bitter, Loki staggers down the stairwell. Each cold step he takes with his bare feet felt weighed down, eyes of a stranger being set on the back of his frame. _Heimdall_ , Loki assumed.

 

“Could not sleep?”

“The nerve you have, young king.”

Odin pulls a tight smile, flipping over the parchment he laid at the end of a wide wooden pedestal. Over the centuries the wanderer changed. Loki once met a boy, blue eyed of the most steel piercing gaze. He watched on the world like a sword, a sharpened edge. It was under a tree in Midgard, planted in the middle of a three way crossing.

 

They were of similar height back then. Despite the differences they shared and went against, Odin loved the riddles, the unpredictable nature of the boy who bleared with the colors of the macabre, all except his eyes. He knew the other was not entirely true to his form, and asked who the other half of his sired brood was. It was the first time Loki had been honest with another being.

 

“Jötunnheim remains to be allowed breath.”

“The casket is secure enough.”

“You know what you say is not what you have faith in.”

 

Loki tuts. Odin has grown older, in both appearance and mind. Once he was a wandering youth, full of life, seeking knowledge and people. Now he was a King, expected to rule over and protect his Kingdom. The man then becomes shelled. Harder, alert and sharper. The tall, smooth faced youth was no more. He was an older man, his golden beard, the creases on his face telling stories of battles and scars. Yet the worries still linger in the all-knowing gaze of Odin, the All-father.

Loki knows the missing jigsaws. He knows the pieces Odin worries about, the questions that the king needs answers to. The traitor of his kind insisted in destroying the icy realm. Nothing more than frost, the disfigured monsters of the nine reside within the harsh world. The Norns warned that the giants will bring forth a great war, the greatest of the many ever witnessed, one that was so cruel and nasty that it will threaten the existence of Asgard.

 

It hastened Odin’s campaign against the Jötunnar, but instead the old god decided not to annihilate. It infuriated Loki in a strange way. The nerve he had. After everything Loki had risked, sacrificed and endured for that victory. The answer to the King's problem became another puff of smoke.

 

“There was no need for endless savagery.”

“I will allow you to defend yourself with that pathetic excuse. All-father.”

 

Odin frowned, but only shortly. He understood to an extent, and was willing to extend that understanding if not only for the queer pity he felt towards the distant gaze which lingered in those green eyes. The years he spent travelling in the unlikely company of the trickster allowed him to accept few things about the other.

Even back then Loki was conceited, cruel, but not evil; and dark, but not corrupted. A heart frozen in the ice that abandoned him, but not without it, Loki did have a heart. He was simply just blunt. Perhaps a little inconsiderate. Maybe a little disregarding of everything. Maybe Odin was being positive. Maybe.

 

“Soon, I will become a father, Loki.” Odin sighs.

It was a mixed feeling of relief and warmth. A child, Odin thought. When Frigga came baring the news, the soon to be father felt something that upturned his resolve, his initial reason in procreation. The king thought of all the battles, the faces, the bloodshed and destruction.

He has ascended on his throne for more than thousands of eons, leaving a trail of what others deemed glorious victories into the scripts of the ancient books.

And with every battle that ended, he would stand at the edge of the hills. Like the day when he saw the Valkyrie come for the mortal dead, the rising horizon of Valhalla. He would take in every monster, every warrior he slew, every creature that was torn, and every remains of the cities that he leveled. The tears which the people drank for their dead and the riddle that dripped like quick silver under the magpie’s tongue.

 

_Why do men mourn their dead?_

 

“A king could wish that his son will not walk the same path as his father. “ Odin speaks. “He could wish that he will become the harbinger of a new era.”

A thin frown emerges on Loki, eyeing upwards from his dark corner of Odin’s tower.

 

“A new chapter in the books of our histories ridden with blood.”

“And hope that the Norns are wrong?”

“I believe in our promise, Loki.”

 

Odin has no answer. He says nothing, leaving the dark haired god to slowly shake his head. He proceeds to stalk up the shadows upon the pedestal, meeting the single gaze of his one eyed brother.

 

“You are delusional, Borson.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The day Asgard celebrated the birth of their golden prince; the whole realm lit their dwellings with the lanterns of life.

Songs were chanted in the name of Frigga, a well wish for her labor when the child arrived. After nine days under the cloudless sky, a brilliant storm gathered in the celestial ceiling. A pierce of a single lightning roared in the place of a loud cry of an infant pulled out from the womb of the mother goddess.

For the first time in Asgard, it rained. Loki was absolutely fascinated with the droplets of water. It was unlike any dreary rain in Midgard, the showers were the aftermath of a burning thunder. From the horn of silver Odin poured water over the babe, gave him the name that acknowledged him into his royal bloodline.

 

_Thor! Thor Odinson!_

 

 _He who was to be the god of thunder, second in line to the golden throne of Asgard_. With the announcement, the people cheered. The land rumbled with the feet stomping against the floating soil, the first apple of Iðunn offered at the soft skin of her infant prince.

The highest of the gods each offered their gifts in turn, and for the next few days, delegations arrived from all across the worlds and cosmos for the allies of Asgard to offer their presents to the young royal. The festival left many drunk and jolly, all except the pale god who resided within the highest tower of Odin’s palace.

 

Loki watched from afar, hidden in the shadows to witness the birth, the celebration, and the people cheering for the golden bundle of joy. A harbinger, Odin said. The boy who will grow up to open a new era of peace and prosperity, the one who is destined to be remembered as the virtuous warrior king.

A sneer. That was what Odin earned. Loki turned his chin up at the sight of Asgardian festivities, retreating back into his colder corner of the tower. Gram lay stuck between the velvet cushions, Loki gave no care for the sword as he swept past to reach for the towering bookshelves.

 

The god was not planning to make an appearance for the infant any time soon. For all he cared, the babe could do without his congratulations. The babe, who is loved by all from the moment of birth, basked in the sunshine, welcomed by warmth and admiration. Loki let out a disgusted grunt, pulling out a leather clad book and throwing it out the window in frustration.

It was only until Frigga, who was the only one to notice the disgruntled disappearance of the god, gave him an intense stare of appeal that Loki begrudgingly agreed to bestow his blessing. Traditions demanded that even though he was only a brother in name related by the mixing of blood, he was required to bless Odin’s child.

 

Loki was the secluded of all gods, aloof and unseen most of the years that passed the realm of gold. Only Heimdall knew where he could be, and then again those most times the all-seer could not tell what was going on inside the trickster’s head. It made it difficult to keep track of the pale god.

 

So when the god of lies appeared at the blessing, in the halls of the great throne room in his golden horned crown, his grim emerald green coat rimmed with the blackest of wolf mane, the crowd waited in anticipated silence. Not even a breath escaped the sounds lingering amongst the quiet.

Loki approached the cradle in his slow swaggering steps, eyes not leaving the peachy pile flashing between the infant’s sheets.

 

Reluctance is a curious thing. No fear, no conscience or a voice. And even then the pale fingers were reluctant to reach in towards the cradle. Odin stood beside in the distance, eyeing the two with an unsure smile in assurance for his queen. Loki brings the winter in his cold presence, and for a moment that instant when the babe met his bluest of cobalt eyes with his green, Loki took a step back.

 

The babe was plump, touched by the golden rays of Asgard. He had possession of his mother and father’s beautiful eyes, the golden strands astray around his small head. His smile, the gurgle of the smaller god burned something into Loki’s mind.

For a moment he was unsure if it was insanity. Everything spiraled down to a confused state of panic. Loki had to get away from there, from the babe; from the warm innocent smile of this child who everyone believed would bring forth what he knew would be the destruction of change.

 

Then Loki held his breath. His hands still petrified in mid air, a lone slender finger grabbed by two plump hands, not burning, but soothing against his coldest of skins. The baby cooed.

The god could not walk away. A half unwanted feeling swelled inside his innards, crawling up and threatening to spew. The smile on Odin’s face slowly faded, recognizing a strange emotion in the sideways glimpse of Loki. The king knew what that expression was.

 

Loki outstretched his hands, his pale fingers cradling the child’s head. He leaned forwards, lower into the cradle. His eyes closed, a cheerful gurgling sound smothered the silent meeting of his lips against the babe’s forehead.

 

 Odin remained silent.

 

The father was able to say nothing when the wordless master of the blessing turned his back against the crowd, disappearing back into the darkness before anyone could see the single pale tear running down his cheeks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Keep your child away from me.”

 

Loki refused to meet the gaze of the all-father, who looked upon sternly at the lean youth. His appearance changed, and with a silent surprise debated such an abrupt choice for Loki to age. From a boy, now his body looked fully a young man, eyes derange above the darkened circles at the rims of his oculus. Tall and muscled in a well toned slenderness, his unruly jet black hair settled in a darkly, subtle sinister beauty of a man.

Sweat poured from the back of his neck, coldness swept the windpipes to allow him breath. Odin offered no words, only his vision and silence. Loki seethed, throwing his crown across the room that tumbled down, breaking a few things in its path. Odin ignores the noises, the fuming.

 

“If you cannot keep your child away from me, then that is fine also.” Loki continues after his initial calm down, voice frosting once again. “I will keep myself away from him.”

“Loki.”

“No, all-father. Can you not see?”

 

Loki gives nothing. He was making a clear signal that he was not going to take any form of bull from his majesty the king. Odin takes the message and closes his lips, a dark frown taking over his expressionless face. Loki throws his arms up in an exasperated silence.

 

“You are not blind Odin. Just one eyed, which does not make you blind. In fact, you should be more seeing than anyone else with that single eye.”

Sarcasm drips like a fountain in his tongue, and Loki knows his boundaries. So he closes his mouth, closes his eyes, trying to push everything away. Like he always did.

“You are asking me to blindly devote my efforts into changing a course of destiny, young king. All for a newborn god who everyone wishes to love from the moment of his birth.” Loki croaks, smothering his eyes into his palms. “You are asking me sacrifice the bane of my existence.”

 

 _You are asking me to gamble everything I have. For what?_ Loki denies the disgusting green emotion prickling at the weaker walls of his frozen heart.

“I am asking you to give him a chance.” The king consoles. “I know you will love the child Loki. You already do.”

 

_Because it was our promise._

 

Odin breathes. A silence lingers. Loki spares him no glances before he challenges a feat of rudeness.

 

“Get out.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I am going to break the chain of destiny._

Boys. And dreams. The two usually had a disastrous effect on most, the self formed identity one gives to the self in a flurry of immaturity. But there was something special about his voice, the deep uncharted tone which fascinated the other.

 

_There is no such thing as a prophesized doom Loki._

_My people will be protected. They will survive. I shall make it so._

 

Then the vision blurs. A cry of a monstrous voice echoes into the darkest skies of Yggdrasil. It sounded like a boisterous laugh, a cackle of maniac distortion. The winter sweeps ice cold and verge of frictional breaking. The thundering booms of the war cry drown the noises in the wind. Their people left to rot in the icy realm survived the millennia, above the savage soil which died even before the branches of the Yggdrasil withered.

 

_Blood traitor. You little shit._

_You dare to wear the skin of our people’s enemies. Have you no shame, runt?_

 

The boy snarls, churning against the glacier, impaled by an icy needle. Blood pours from the gaps of his ribs, his guised skin cracking the blackest of all bloods. Blood of a traitor, they sneer. Strands of his hair ripped apart from his scalp, the boy lay squirming, broken and bruised on the floor of snow and ice.

 

He would die here, abandoned like so many times. The ice palace that stands to mock at his lineage. The long awaited darkness; succumbing to the disease they call loneliness. In his plane of scarlet grass and burning pain of flesh, the Norns whisper their secrets by the well, the secrets untold even to the all knowing Odin, the secrets only which the threads of Verðandi will understand.

 

_The giants who hail from the frost, the forgotten kingdom ruled by their King Laufey will bring the destruction of gods…_

_…And you, Loki, traitor of kin will become the harbinger of Ragnarok._

_You are doomed to bring death to all you knew._

_No Valkyrie will sing for the blood you shed, the lives you murder, the loved ones you slay._

 

Loki screams himself awake. He lets no tear fall, but stumbles against the floor once again in a disrupted world, the boundaries of his madness thinning with each breath he let escape between his pale dry lips. He curls himself up into a small little ball, head smothered close against his knees.

 

“There is no such thing as a prophesized doom.” Loki whispers madly in repetition, the words of a young wise king.

 

His desperate broken lullaby leaves no echoes as they disappear into the shadows.

 

 

 

 

_They will survive._

_I shall make it so._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. The green of all hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki leaned closer, holding the ball of warmth near. It felt so alien to his cold skin. And it was pleasant. The soothing rhythm of breathing resonated between the two gods, and it vibrated with a woozy heat. 
> 
> The god tells a tale, a tale which the younger will not be able to discern the truth from the lies. He whispers of things unknown, and with a nose pressed against the babe’s face, Loki acknowledges a cruel little truth.

 

 

 

 

 

The first time Thor sees for himself the devil in the tallest tower was when his arm was broken and bleeding.

 

Or that was what the noble children in the palace called it. The devil's tower. The maidservants and the nurses would tell them off for spreading such tales, often stressing that the dweller in the tower was not a demon. But then again, they would not answer when asked what it was.

It was a rather stupid dare, idiocy at its maximum to be frank. Natural to the boastful nature of children. Everything seems to be a game when you didn’t know better. The war games, the chasing games, the riding games, the things that easily become violence.

 

No child dared to climb the highest tower of Odin’s sanctum. It was the only place where the sunlight did not reach, where there were windows that one could not peer inside. The black stain in the glass prevented anyone from seeing through to the interior, and no light came through the stairwell. The children called it the haunted wing, the servants often had tales of ghosts lingering in those shadows.

 

People did not disturb the highest wing. Thor always had a feeling that those stairs did not welcome anyone anyway, the curious people who usually attempted to climb up to the inner rooms of the tower ended up walking back down in confusion, lost in the darkness, or completely succumbed to fright.

 

Stories started circulating among the children that there was a monster guarding the tower, tales of what lies after the beast entailed from treasure to wild beautiful maidens and legendary weapons. Thor scoffed at such common tales, if anything that important was under surveillance, Odin would have had it stored somewhere he knew.

Thor felt a certain level of pride at his father’s willingness to share important things, even to such a young child. He called it early education; Frigga had occasionally frowned in a disapproving manner.

And the fact that Thor was a proud child was a concern in his immediate tendency to cause trouble. A simple dare it was, to climb up to the highest tower and retrieve something that resided in the darkest floors. They urged with their childish stubbornness, their prince if he truly thought he was better than the others, would easily be able to do such things.

 

Thor never backed down. Thor never bows, never admits to the impossible. So the child god entered the stairwell, leaving the group of children peering at this back with anxious faces. The boy ran like a wild horse up the seemingly never ending stone pathway, and it was colder than anywhere else in Asgard. The cold even penetrated his leather sandals. It threatened to send chills up his spine.

It was dark even in the light of day. Thor stopped in his tracks, pacing his breath which he threw out from a building exhaustion. Catching the jagged air in his lungs, he looked around with a youthful defiance, pushing down that feeling of uncertainty, a small pore of fright pushing into the corner of his immature mind.

 

Silence whispered back to his stares, sending a cold breath onto his face. The corridors seemed eternal, unending. It was infinite, desolate, and unwelcoming. Strange whispers that the child believed sure to be the wind started to sound like words, telling him to keep running.

 

 

Then with an unwilling blow, a dark snarl echoes on the end of the walls. Thor whips back at the noise, eyes widening in a stutter that escapes his lips. He was sure this was just a stupid trick, _or perhaps it was the monster._ Thor swallows hard, slowly approaching the harsh growling noises out of sheer bravery.

Then the beast in the shadow jumps, and it was the most terrifying moment in Thor’s life yet. The child god lets out something that is between a bellow and a scream when a giant black wolf pounces onto his view. Eyes glaring red like the flames of Hel, teeth sharper than spears and swords, blood and blackness dripping from its hungry mouth.

 

It snarls, a disfigured noise mutating in its own hatred. A roar echoes the halls as the child scrambles to his feet after tumbling down in the darkness, the child starts running to the other end as fast as his legs could carry him. Shame tore at his sides, he was running from a battle.

Then the boy trips, crashes into things which he cannot see. Something sharp drops down from the shelves that he shook, onto his arm they landed and left a hurtful wound. Thor bites his lips from letting out a cry of pain, instead lets his breath die when the snarl starts to fade from the corridors.

 

The prince lay there, among the pile of things which he could not tell apart what. His breathing slow and silent, his arms hurting, flesh gaping open with an injury. Now what? The child felt lost and alone. The misery took over to burn at the ends of his eyes; this was what he knew as fear.

 

_Fear._

 

Even the words seemed shameful. Thor let out a frustrated scream, mimicry of the warrior’s battle cry. It rattled the halls, the floor and the ceiling with a threatening vibration. Even though the god remained to be a child, he was the god of thunder. A child destined to become a king.

 

“By the Norns, lower your foul _tantrums_ , young prince.”

 

Thor jumps at the cool voice, eyes still wide at the approaching light of green flames.

 

“Address yourself!” The child gives an impressive bellowing adorned to his father.

The devil seemed so similar to the men who Thor was used to seeing. He did not have long claws, no scaly wings or hooves for feet. Yet his form was unlike any other he knew of in this realm of gold. The palest shade of deathly white covered his skin, translucent in the darkness and burning against the green light.

He wore an elegant coat flowing with a darker shade of emerald green, the opening edges decorated with tufts of magnificent black wolf fur, chains of gold hanging from buttons and cuffs. It was as black as his hair, his brows.

 

The youth of a man was tall and slim, his wrist bone sticking out in the frame of his hands strung with a black beaded bracelet. It wasn’t the play of the illuminating light; his sharp gaunt eyes were a defined green, as green as the scales of a venomous serpent which Thor saw in the pictures of story books.

His expression was a frozen shape between a bored insult, a mix of exhaustion and smug surprise.

 

“I have been very particular with my request with your father, Odinson.” The devil drawls, eyes narrow. “And that was you not being anywhere near here.”

Thor looked up at the man who was now slowly crouching down onto his knee, meeting his eye level. “You know who I am?” The child asks, confused at his memory which held no image of this devil that spoke his name. The devil scoffed.

 

“I am not an idiot little prince. Though clearly, you are one.”

“How dare y-”

But before an insulted Thor could even fume at the devil who dares speak to him in such manner, the demon raises his arms and grabs at the child’s wrists. Thor flinched, unwilling to let out a cry of pain like any other children his age would have done. The grip was rough and inconsiderate, but the green eyes gazed distastefully at the open wound. Before the boy could even pull away at the hand that held his arm, he pulled up the bleeding wound in his mouth.

 

Thor let out a gasp, as cold lips encased his wound and swallowed the blood pouring through the slash of his flesh. A sharp, discomforting feeling ran up his arms, disturbing the tendons which ran through the appendage.

Thor quickly pulled away in alarm, only to realize that his arms have started to close its wounds and heal by itself. With a smug huff, the devil retreated out of his space, spitting out what taste that was left on his tongue.

 

With the bones no longer broken, the prince was able to move his arm freely once again. Thor watched in awe as the last of the open wound disappeared into his skin, leaving the peachy flesh clean and fresh like it was anew.

 

“Now stand. Get out of my tower.”

“But-“

“Follow the magpie who will guide your way back down.”

Thor bristled at his royal presence being clearly ignored. Who was this devil? With such extraordinary healing magic? Such sorcery was unheard of, even among the healers of Asgard. The pale demon looked only amused at the child’s building tantrum.

A magpie flutters from his green flame floating above his shoulders, an ethereal sprite chirps an echo before it starts skipping onto the path down the corridors. Thor struggles to choose between staying and demanding to know who the devil was, and following the bird back to the world he knows.

 

“Hurry now prince. Before I leave you lost here.” The devil urges, already turning his back on the child who, after a moment of reluctant thinking, decides to jog after the magpie now stretching its wings.

“I demand to know your name!” Thor shouts, stopping in his tracks.

 

It was only until the devil growled unpleasantly at the flying magpie that Thor grumpily decided to follow the bird, leaving the other to disappear back into the shadows.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_You will love the child. You already do._

Loki once huffed at the sentiment. He had visited Frigga a few times in the queen’s nursery room.

The first few times when he refused the queen suggesting he should hold the babe, the infant reached out his short plump little arms towards the paler god. The same generous expression clouded sadly over the all-mother’s eyes, her warm gaze making Loki feel unqualified to hold her son.

 

And one time the queen was not there. The babe was crying in his cradle, the noise loud and big. Loki saw the resemblance then, the cobalt blue eyes, and the shining blonde hair. His loudness, everything the child had was a miniature of his father. Loki tried to soothe the child with a series of coos, which all failed as the babe flailed helplessly at the air to get closer at the grown man.

With a frustrated growl, the green eyed god stretched his arms and held the babe close to his chest, holding the small breathing creature in his arms. It gurgled happily, gazing in his babyish innocence up at the pair of dilated green eyes.

 

Loki forgot how to let out his breath. It was so frail, so little. So small and happy, golden with a striking likeness to the realm he hailed from. It was a ball of warmth that brushed, clinging so earnestly onto his wintered skin. The babe snuggled comfortably in his space he was offered between Loki’s arms and chest, closing his eyes in a silent sleep of an infant. The god of stories sat there, upon a chair of silver threads. A god of thunder sleeping in his arms. Loki playfully touched the tip of the babe’s nose with a silent snicker.

 

The man leaned closer, holding the ball of warmth nearer to his heart. It felt so alien to the cold skin. And it was pleasant. The soothing rhythm of breathing resonated between the two gods, and it vibrated with a woozy heat. The god tells a tale, a tale which the younger will not be able to discern the truth from the lies.

He whispers of things unknown, and with a nose pressed against the babe’s face, Loki acknowledges a cruel little truth.

 

It was the first and only time he held Thor in his arms.

 

It was the last time he made himself known in the child’s presence. He left the nursery, and never came back since then.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“A very promising material, your highness, and I mean really.”

 

Odin makes a distinct expression, one between an indignant frown and fatherly scorn. It was almost unsurprising how their late night conversations always happened in the silver tower, among the ancient wisdom and trinkets that Odin retrieved from the universe. Loki sat above the windows, his legs hanging down the edge with his toes scratching mindlessly at the limestone walls.

 

“He will mature. He is only a mere child for now.”

It was not a defensive comment, Odin truly believed in his own ideals. And the fact that he believed it out of pure trust in the turn of the natural order of things, exasperated Loki to a point of rolling his eyes. If  _accidentally_  burning down the hanging gardens of Freyja in blind frenzy of child fights was not any an indication, then Loki did not know what was to hint at the level of promise Thor displayed in keeping future peace.

 

Odin only swept a thoughtful glance over at the gaunt man, before snapping up again in a soft alarm at how tired the younger god looked.

 

The king himself has only recently returned from his latest campaign, eliminating a trouble brewing in the Eastern realms with a few monsters showing up to danger the branch of Yggdrasil. It had taken a few months before he returned home in another triumph celebrated by Asgard, and then a few weeks later Loki returned with no one but Odin and Heimdall noticing his silent arrival.

The All-father spent his older life dedicating himself to protect the stable balance of Asgard. He spent his entire time pressing down every single threat the Norns have warned him of, the things that they have foretold in their prophecies, and the rest of his other time preparing for the end which the threads spoke of. He battled and shed the blood of beings to change the decided ending of their universe. Now he had another reason to pulse his efforts into his work for preparing a door to the new era of peace, namely, his offspring.

 

Odin took his son as a gift, a sign. He fought and worked day and night to establish a kingdom which will remain in prosperity until his Odinsleep finished, for him to return and finish turning the wheels of Ragnarok. The Norns were not specific with the details, and Odin took that in a literal direction where all possibilities needed to be covered.

The mutual promise and the bond they shared meant that Loki was as equally busy, and although Odin never earned the chance to hear the reason as to why Loki was so intent on achieving their common goal, the king had no doubt that he was certainly pulling his weight, if not more.

 

In fact, now that he was seeing how ghastly the other god was looking; Odin could not help but to recount all the work Loki has been up to ever since the campaign in Útgarðar started a few years aback.

The god of tales usually held himself responsible for strategies in the battlefield, directing supply lines and ambushes for the warrior legions, taking the front lines when time called for haste formation. When he was not involved in the bloodshed, Loki usually represented at the foreign courts in the delegation as an Asgardian ambassador. He was certainly talented as the voice that spun the conversations, his fingers pulling at the strings more capably than any other in the courts of intrigue.

Odin cannot remember the last time he saw the other actually take the time to rest. Loki was always busy doing something. And it was finally taking a visible toll on the god, in the king’s opinion.

 

“You should rest.”

“I am rather content with my insomnia, thank you.”

“What I mean is, you need period of proper rejuvenation.”

As in, take a vacation perhaps. Odin’s gaze suggested. Loki made a grunt before limply turning his head to meet that stern look in his elder’s eyes.

 

 

“Your realm is boring.” Loki tells.

“Loki.” Odin rebuts.

“Fine, I take that back.” Loki gives.

Sometimes he felt like he had two sons. Odin flipped over the parchment binding around his desk, dismissing the words floating through the golden sickle propped against the stand.

 

“Still, it matters not where I stay. Less differences than more.”

“Make a connection Loki. Mingle, by the Norns, you should really tell me you have made a friend other than Gram in all the years you stayed here.”

Loki shot a withering of all withering looks at the All-father, making the old king feel like he was a withering tree. _Friends?_ As if the thought itself was horrifying, Loki shook his head in sharp jagged turns, unwilling to even verbally refuse. It was not as if Gram was an unworthy companion, even if Gram was an inanimate object incapable of speech.

The god of tales was no more popular than the other antagonists of the golden realm. The only Æsir who have not yet to treat him with either a passive contempt or an alarmed fright was Heimdall. It was usually the latter; given that his anti-social personality traits made sure he seemed more outlandish than he already was.

 

The Æsir were foolishly proud of their noble lines. They were infuriatingly gullible, simple minded in Loki’s view.

They, like the vain sunlight of their skies, held on to their glories and harmony in the most conservative black and white justice of a perspective. Of course, Loki could give it a chance that he was generalizing Odin’s people into a narrower frame, but most of his years proved that they certainly had no capacity of a mind to accept the green eyed god fully as their own.

It concerned Odin, in a peculiar way to see Loki, in context, doing so much, the man who sacrificed all his own for the well-being of Asgard treated in such disregard. Two events in the past fully scandalized Loki’s reputation in the Asgardian courts, one the result of an ill-natured jealousy from one of Odin’s generals. Loki partook nothing in stopping the rumors that flew around him, welcoming the way the gods casted him out from their social spheres, out with the foul stories they told about him.

It certainly made Odin wonder why he would give so much with nothing in return.

 

“Then stay put at least, for a little while.” Odin mutters out loud, earning another gaze. “You look most ridiculously frail.”

Loki only looked a little affronted. “I beg your pardon.”

 

Odin huffs at the air a few times in a soft manner, which is the closest thing the old king does to chuckling.

“This is a direct order from your king Loki. Rest, catch up on the internal affairs for a change.”

 

Perhaps you can catch up with my son.

 

Odin’s last words made Loki scowl.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was not like Loki paid no attention to the growing age of Thor.

All eyes in Asgard admired their young prince. The golden heir to the throne of their realm, son of the great king Odin, the glorious god of thunder who brings the rain, he who opens up the skies to summon the bolts of ferocious temperament. The promise he showed,

_In becoming an absolute donkey’s backside._

 

Loki grimaced at the whispers in his own head.

There were at times when most people did not notice the god of mischief linger among the shadows of the palace, sitting high in his temporary nests to observe the young prince. As often as he could steal the glimpses of the growing boy, Loki realized as much potential of the child becoming a king who Odin wanted next to a piece of carrot.

The child was everything that could have made Odin a problematic king, he was boastful, vain, egotistical, selfish, had a tendency to rely heavily on his emotional tantrums and physical violence, impulsive and simple. Most in Asgard did not see being simple as a problem. Loki saw it as the biggest problem. Stupidity can have no reason when it brings down empires and kingdoms.

 

Give it time and he will age, he will mature. Odin said. Loki blinked in annoyance at this wise set of words. Surely if the All-father gave his trust, then it should have been easier to believe the child was a worthy material to gamble away his future. Every child has their immature flaws they say. Children are just children they say.

Loki refuses to understand. Every time the people excuse their prince’s behavior with his petty childishness, the memories of the piercing needles through his skin, the abused flesh between every corner of his body, broken and left to bleed, to die in the icy snow field return to haunt him. His unreasonable amount of disdain for the boy grew with each and every observation, to a point of hatred.

 

 

It sickened him with a feeling so disgusting that it left bile in his mouth.

 

The anger.

 

The unspeakable anger towards the boy who was to be loved by all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. The sorcerer in the tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your son called that craft as cowardice.” Loki prompted, gaining a short pause from Frigga. “You know that boy lacks humility.”
> 
> “You have visited him today, I heard.”
> 
> “I am sure your son loved every single moment with me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Tell me a riddle, Loki tale weaver._

_Alright. A man stands before his punishment from his king. He has to choose from three doors, one holds vicious lions ready to devour him, and the other door holds a legion of soldiers ready to kill. The last door holds the greatest beauty in the world._

_Why is there a beauty behind the door of punishments?_

_Well, see young king, riddles are riddles because they are peculiar. Now, which door would the man enter to survive?_

_Hmm. A most contradictive of riddles. I see that the answer is not one. Does the man know which thing lies on the other side?_

_Now that is the question. Who is letting him choose? Is it the King? Or is it the man? Does he know what lies beneath the doors? I did not define the walls in this case, Borson._

_Then I say the answer is the doors to the vicious lions._

_And why, may I ask?_

_Because, the person who knows what lies beyond those door was the princess who fell in love with the man, she who knew that the lions have long ago starved to death._

_Ah. Now you up my game._

* * *

 

 

 

To say Thor was the prime definition of bravado was an understatement. The child reeked of confidence. With every decade that passed, he grew taller and broader. He was larger than the other children already by the time he was in the age nearly ready to meet puberty. His masculinity has not yet flourished, but the boy was now tall enough.

Perhaps he came up to Loki’s own stomach now, the god quietly flicked a hand towards his middle to predict how big the young god would be if they stood alongside each other. He quickly retracted his hands, repealing the look he had in his eyes.

With every inch he grew, his head was a bulging balloon filled with pride. If Loki was worried a long time ago that Thor would become an absolute war maniac, now he had enough of an indication to discuss the matter with Frigga. The boy held as much regard to the other races in the nine realms as he would with an onion rolling at his feet.

 

Call it childish arrogance, but it was hard to see it in such way when Loki could not help feeling that Asgard in general pitied the other races with an almost xenophobic level of inferiority; and Odin was overly busy in the outside perimeters to see to it that his internal affairs were going in the right direction.

After perhaps several bloodied fists and many angry Thors, Loki decided to bring the topic up when the boy ended up breaking a sword arm of his older adolescent warrior in training, in a furious blind ego fight, to boot. The whole training ground was on fire and burning down with the thunder striking randomly down at the ground. And although Loki made no reservation, even startled the All-mother with his sudden apparition on her couch, Frigga took his concern with sincerity.

“I have, on occasions noticed such behavior of course.”

This directly translated in Loki’s mind to mean that she thought no need to actually the correct the problem, or that Thor was a handful that could not be guided with motherly measures. Loki begrudgingly respected Frigga in her minimum association to the prince’s upbringing; Asgardians had the weirdest of superstitions about maidens’ excessive influence on a child’s growth making warriors feminine.

 

“Odin insisted I give him time to enjoy youth.”

“There is a phrase which says ‘now or never’, my queen.”

It left Loki ranting on about all the problems Thor was getting himself into, all the fights, all the unnecessary boasts that eventually rigged the other children into an impossibly dangerous misadventure. He already succeeded in rallying up a group of others into ‘adventuring’ into the forbidden woods, Loki was throwing a fit by the time he found himself rushing to Heimdall, getting the children’s whereabouts, and fish out an unconscious Thor poisoned by the river dragon.

The bloody dragon left screeching when Loki hissed violently at the serpentine creature, upturning its river in the process of his threat. He carried the fainted boy all the way back to the palace, where it was Frigga’s turn to throw a fit.

 

“You know Loki,” Frigga suddenly interrupts, an amused smile on her soft lips. “I never realized you put so much warming interest in how Thor fared all these years.”

Loki felt absolutely drained with that statement, crossing his arms impatiently. With furrowed brows, the darker god let escape a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat.

 

“Unlike most fools, I actually care about what kind of King I will have to follow one day.”

“Loki.” Frigga soothes, in that motherly stern voice. “By all rights, you are his kin by blood mixed with the All-father.”

 

“Spare me the sentiment, please.”

“It would be correct if you could partake in his tutoring.”

“Excuse me?” Loki sputtered, uncrossing his arms in alarm.

“It would be a nice change.” Frigga continues to finish, eyes back onto the threads she let weave onto the marble floors. “For you, I mean. You do not get tired of stalking around in the shadows?”

 

Loki scowled. “I do not stalk.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He disliked that smile on her face with passion.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Loki stalked the halls in such a grumpy manner that he even forgot to conceal his presence. It was a rare sight to see, the god of tales walking bare feet along the halls of the palace in his grim emerald coat. If looks could kill, Loki would have shot a few people dead with his eyes on his way to the classrooms in the southern wing.

The only way he could convince himself to stand the existence of Odinson would be if Ragnarok was impending tomorrow. Partake in his tutoring? What nonsense, he thought. Frigga must not have been paying attention to all the decades he spent blocking up her son from his personal boundaries. To an extent it spelled dislike on his part of the relationship.

 

Loki stopped fuming by the time he arrived near the training grounds, a miniature arena for the warriors in training. Thor was already receiving his first course of education, but in Loki’s opinion, he had poor excuses of tutors to teach him anything. One fact resided with the reality that most of the able generals were busy battling in their campaign alongside Odin.

But evidently the boy was oblivious to such details, he took in the praises of his tutors as he swung the sword, learned to deflect blows and counter strikes in a way which made Loki frown. The pale god looked down from the balconies atop the arena, under the canvas tent blocking out the sunlight. He watched as the children mocked the battles with each other, with wooden swords and shields. Daggers fashioned out of bark.

Thor certainly wanted to become great. He had a passion, a goal to become like his father. Loki wondered for a moment if that would be a wise choice for a dream. He knew boys and dreams made disastrous combinations often if not always. Loki recalled Odin saying that he wished his son would walk a different path, a path of virtue and peace.

 

 _Well, fat chance that was happening,_ Loki thought, as he watched Thor throw away his sword in frustration and tackle another boy, beating him to the ground.

Loki could respect passion. Although he found no value in anything which the gods were so proud of, Thor was the embodiment of everything that was foreign to the green eyed god. Bravery, loyalty, and if self-righteousness could be counted as a virtue, justice. Something about the younger god always rubbed at his ego in the wrong side, Loki deemed too early to acknowledge what that feeling actually was.

The children eventually separated, growling at each other’s backs. Thor was left alone with his wooden sword thrown away on the dusted ground, face still red from anger. The boy needed to learn how to manage his temper, Loki watched under his heavy eye lids as Thor made his way across to the dummies to vent his irritation.

He observed how his swings were completely out of balance. Too much flashy movements, unnecessary grips and angles that was better suited to show off than an actual battle. Thor was going to lose his balance quite easily with such disorientated moves. Loki thinned his lips when it proved true, the prince quickly recovered from his fall and rushed to charge at the wooden dummy.

 

_Oh the child was pathetic._

Loki drew from the air, waving his fingers as a green glow followed in an ethereal essence. A breeze of something sharp tackled Thor’s ankles, it made the boy stumble face first into the dust. The god of tales swooped down from his nest, landing softly beside the fallen boy who seemed to be trying to define his mood between embarrassment and anger.

“What a marvelous warrior you are turning out to be.”

Thor straightened his eyes wide in surprise when an all too familiar face was looking down at him. The same expression, the same glint of the green of all greens held in the pupils of the devil’s eyes.

 

“You!” The boy bristled, his sword still in his hand. “I saw you in the tower a long time ago, are you that demon?”

Demon? Loki frowned. His reply was silence. Apparently the children sincerely believed that Odin would harbor a demon inside his own palace.

“Boy, drop your nonsense. And hold your sword properly.”

“Who are you? Your lack of respect astonishes me.”

 

Oh, so the boy has grown. He definitely possesses some of his father’s dignity and demeanor. Loki was impressed that he was able to express it in such age. With an amused snicker, Loki turned his fingers around, once again weaving at the air.

With a smothered yelp of surprise, Thor’s free hand shot up to grab the hilt of his wooden sword in a manner untaught by his tutors. His sword arm secured the position, wrapping itself fully in the direction of the weapon’s handle.

“That is how you hold a sword, Odinson. You are far too inexperienced to be swinging a sword with one hand.”

“How did you do that?” Thor demanded to know, his voice dropped with such hints.

Loki offers no answer, only watching with a satisfied grunt at the way Thor held the sword in his fingers, guided in place by his craft. Thor pipes up his accusation; “It was sorcery, is it not? Is it the devil’s craft? Are you allowed to be out of the tower?”

“Little prince, I am a warlock, not a fairy tale being.” The pale god holds his chin up; deliberately berating the looks he gives in the direction of the blonde god. Thor is infuriated of course, but has a better sense to try and understand their conversation than to resort to his temper.

“Sorcery is cowardice, maiden’s craft.” Thor jeers.

“My my sir, with all due respect I could probably best you in a swordfight with a hand tied to my back.”

 

The drawling voice drew out a battle cry from the boy, his sword initiating a strike against the pale figure that simply gathered his hands at his back and stepped sideways, dodging the blow. Thor gave no restrain when he jumped around, slashing at the air. Loki really could think of a hundred other things he could be doing instead of entertaining Thor’s ridiculous combat training, the man huffed as he swirled in a rapid circle away from the sword’s reach.

Thor gave a startled cry at the speed, swift and elegant as the green eyed god swung around light on his feet to kick him away. The young god of thunder staggered backwards before landing on his backside, Loki stared darkly down at him.

“Your form is pathetic.”

“Hold your tongue! I will not tolerate-“

The younger god was fuming again, his face flushed red. He stood up again, only to be cut short of Loki reaching out in one rapid motion to grab at the hem of his tunic; and Thor grunted with a harsh tug that snared at his neck. The green eyes blazed with venom in them, the paler hands pulled the golden prince close to his face and hissed.

 

“Do not discuss tolerating anything with me, Odinson,” he snarled, “I did not risk everything, just to have it destroyed by a sorry excuse of an immature king, his head too big for the crown.”

Loki knew he was venting out his frustrations with Odin to the wrong target. His intelligent side, his reasonable self knew that his anger was misdirected. His mind and conscious burned, but his heart always needed someone to blame. To blame for the abuse he endured for his fears to subside. And this oblivious boy, as conceited he was to himself, this ignorant, arrogant royalty who was oblivious to everything he worked for.

Thor was left confused, the spite that spilled out of the pale lips sounded more hurt than angry. The child god held his tongue, if only just to interpret such new emotion seeping through his elder’s voice. Loki roughly let go of Thor’s shirt, pushing him away sharply and abruptly.

“Your form is pathetic, young prince. The way you hold your weapon, the way you attack, the way you step and initiate.” Loki continued on, voice exasperated and already tired. “Everything is wrong. It will get you killed unless whatever you are fighting is made of wood and unable to move.”

“My tutors tell me I was doing well. That I was learning.”

 

It was almost adorable how he was actually trying to defend himself for getting his arse handed to him. Loki rolled his eyes, returning to face the boy on his feet once again. He waved a hand at the sword rack, a wooden blade flying through the air and summoned close to his fingers.

“And how many of your tutors fought in an actual battle?” Loki pressed. “In your father’s wars?”

That drew a silence from Thor, his defined brows furrowing in thought. He eyed the taller god warily, noticing that he was about to take his stance. Loki held the sword in his right hand, playfully taking a jab at the younger god. Thor blocked the attack just barely, expression scrunched in a forced concentration.

“Keep your eyes on the enemies’ sword. Your swings and jabs come from your legs, not your arms. It comes from the ground you stand on.”

And for once Thor held his tongue; his eye burning steel against Loki’s advancing strikes.

 

Loki let out a dark chuckle when Thor was finally able to deflect his attack without staggering.

The sun was already down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The wheel spins. With threads they spur onto the floor, the skies, the soils, and the grass. From them life is made, magic flows, and from the stars one tells destiny. Frigga was always fascinated by the different threads each individual was capable of spinning, of beauty, of nature. The Norn’s art, many called it.

Then no one was sure what Loki’s threads were. They were of the palest and sickly green, majestic but not beautiful, not pleasant. His craft was lies and trickery, spinning tall tales and sometimes stories that came true. The truth distorted into lies, lies configured into truths. Eloquent, dark, and chaotic; that was what most decided to call them. Loki himself had no definition; his sorcery was signature to his own being.

 

“The Norns were giantesses. You know.” Frigga heard Loki whisper, sickly pale on her couch.

The All-mother gave him an understanding smile before returning to her loom, fingers busy with the golden threads that spilled down onto the fur rugged floor. “I have heard the stories, yes.” She replied.

 

“Weaving they call them, magic. The Norn’s art, seiðr.”

“Does it concern you that the sorcery of this cosmos comes from the giants?”

Loki remained silent, his eyes dropping in a tired slowing of movement. He rested his arms, tucked into each other at his chest. His legs crossed, leaning against the vertical and laid out. The fireplace glowed warmly, with a gentle red and a calm orange. He wondered if he could melt.

“Do you fear the Jötunnar, All-mother?”

“They are beings. Creatures gifted with life. But not the same beings as what we are.”

 

Wise words. Loki mouthed. His voice distant. The green eyed god closed his eyes, swallowing the rest of his sentence.

_I fear them. I fear the Jötunns, and Odin should have run them extinct._

 

“Your son called that craft as cowardice.” Loki prompted, gaining a short pause from Frigga. “You know that boy lacks humility.”

“You have visited him today, I heard.”

“I am sure your son loved every single moment with me.”

 

His voice dripped with the literal representation of sarcasm, Frigga could not help but chuckle at the furious and sweating boy that came to visit her with a broken wooden sword in his hands.

 

“I do insist you spend more time with him.”

Loki mocked a snarl. He politely refused.

There was no way in the nine realms that he was going to waste more time on that arrogant little brat.

 

He had better things to do, like securing a future for this damned kingdom.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Fire, cold fire. Burning ice, a sea of glaciers._

 

The shamans chant in unison when the cold wind blows. The horns of warriors raised high into the sky. The war that ravishes their forgotten land, and the great king one eyed Odin marches up to their kingdom with his legions of golden warriors.

 

They know about the runt in the deepest depraved floor of the iced dungeons, cold and darker than any corner of the caves in Jötunnheim. He wears the skin of Asgard, traitor of blood, slayer of his own people. For forty six days the man rotted within those abandoned halls, crucified with frozen needles tearing through his arms and legs. He was a ghastly sight by the time Helblindi arrived.

The blood freezes upon the glacial walls, discolored skin pours in blood and cracks upon the flesh not blue, neither touched by sunlight peach. The lie-smith makes his illusions into reality, and as long as the belief was there, it would have easier said than done to repeal the effect of the fleshy skin that the traitor wore. Trying to force the color out drew disastrous consequences, a rotting segment of black and green splotched at the edges of the man’s arms.

 

_You are no kin of ours._

_Father was right to throw you out the day you were born._

_You should have died that day, a blood traitor, a kin slayer, a whore and a vermin._

Loki does not move. His face still against the icy floor, his bleeding nose does not stop, pouring out everything in his veins to the dry outskirts of the world. He feels his scattered hair being pulled upwards, the needles stuck in his flesh and burning his arteries with gruesome pain. And yet when they meet eyes, Loki gives off a sinister chain of laughter.

He screeches and spurts as he chokes in his own blood through the cackle of madness, the corners of his lips stretching wide to show teeth and fangs. Helblindi roars as he strikes his traitor kin in the face once again, a snapping of bones rattle the bruised body further once more.

 

_I am becoming a monster that our father always wanted._

 

Loki jeers, in a dark glee that makes the soldiers in his dungeon bristle.

 

 

_Take me to him. To King Laufey of Jötunnheim._

_Odin comes, riding for your doom, and only I will be the hope that you survive this war._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loki screams himself awake.

 

Cold sweat runs down his neck, soaking his emerald tunic.

 

The fireplace was out cold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The burdens of your past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the paler god steps closer, wrapping his fingers softly around Thor’s own. He helps them adjust to the sword hilt with a pleasant stability; Thor lets himself breathe in the scent of grape vines between the colder body and his own. His heart hammers against the skin of his chest.
> 
> The pale skin lets off a bittersweet fragrance that leaves ugly marks inside the boy’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The opening line, "My cufflinks are melting" is a reference quote from Deborah Levy, swimming home.
> 
> Thank you for the much appreciated kind comments and the wonderful kudos that you left.

****

 

 

 

 

  
_My cufflinks are melting. This realm is too warm._

 

The day was dry. Even the wind seems desperate to find a wetness only found in the grass. Loki lets the breeze go, his eyes absent from the view ahead. The hunt was going on for days, the Æsir were restless people.

 Frigga must have lost hold of her little babe; because from where Loki was sitting, high up in the elder tree hidden from the sun, he could see a small plump toddler stumbling his way through the humid grass.

 

He was certainly good at shambling. Through the green irises he eyed the toddler warily, the babe anonymous to the sheltered stare. He was heading straight for the hill cliff. Loki noted the direction, hearing the innocent little gurgling laugh as Odin’s baby chased through the bush for a dragonfly.

 The buzzing of the insect was infuriating enough. Loki took a sideways glance at the threatening Cliffside, over down the bush and twigs. And then he went back to staring at the blonde peachy lump.

 

Loki scowled.

 

The dragonfly slowly aviated away from the cliff, guided by a thin trail of emerald green smoke.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You never told me your name.”

 

Thor was sulking. And Loki could not bring himself to pay attention to his little sulk. Mindlessly the paler god flipped over his page, his chin up only a second to pipe up a comment:

 

“Your balance is out again.”

 It made the boy shuffle on his feet, eager to adjust his weight onto his stance once again before giving another swing. Loki blinked a few times before concluding that swords did not really suit Thor. Perhaps an axe, as barbaric the weapon sounds it complimented his strength much better. Or maybe something more maneuverable, something more agile but blunt and stronger. A hammer, maybe.

 

The boy, in time when he grows taller and broader will have an easier time swinging an axe than a sword. Loki gave off a soft sniff as he silently went back to flip over his page of ancient runes.

 “Tell me your name.”

 Thor was persistent if not stubborn. It was both redeeming and annoying.

 

“What do the others call me?”

 Loki knows that Thor has been going through the entire palace for the past few days, asking anyone he could about the green eyed god living inside Odin’s tallest towers. It has been a few millenniums since his arrival among the Æsir. His reputation was not in the best standards of high regard.

 To be frank, Loki associated with the gods only when the need truly rose to the occasion. The campaigns kept him busy in the war field, and most who knew his name and presence well enough to exchange comments were out fighting Odin’s wars. They were the soldiers who he shared battles with, comrades in arms at the very least.

 The domestic Æsir residing within the citadel were less familiar with the alien presence of a Loki on vacation. Odin respected, though reluctantly, his brother’s need for the isolation. The king made no further comments on the background of his sole brood, and the only whispers left to follow the pale god were the rumors and gossips.

 

“The Silver tongue. They called you a snake.”

“I see that I am that good at hissing, hmm.”

 “Who are you?” Thor asks sternly, his sword still swinging in his hands. He was growing frustrated with the non-answers he was earning from the elder. “They call you so many things.”

 

“And your mother. What did she say I was?”

 The boy paused, looking down at the ground, his expression inconspicuous.

 

“That you are my father’s brother by the mixing of blood.”

 Loki took a second to close his book. The leather cover sat dully on his lap, words disappearing from the sight above. The story teller met his eyes, the young god sun touched in his interior world. The pupils narrowed, encased in its venomous green.

 

“You already know my name.”

 Thor fidgets with the handle before curtly giving off a nod. “Yes,” he answers.

 

“Frigga already told you my name. Why are you asking for it?”

“I want to hear it from you, telling me.”

 Loki hoped it was not naïve honesty that he was hearing. But there it was. Thor genuinely just wanted Loki to introduce himself. When Thor received a silent stare for an answer, he cleared his throat. The boy turned his face away, half heartedly swinging his sword at the wooden dummy.

 

“Nobody told me I had an uncle.” Thor replied to the silence, unhappily.

 “If it makes you feel any better,” Loki mutters, uncrossing his legs. “I do not really think of you as my nephew.”

 The empty clearing of the training grounds grow cooler as the sun drops down. The only thing left to fill the empty space between their silences was the wind. Thor tilts his head up, his brows furrowed.

 

“Why?” He asked.

 “Have you ever wondered why your father never really mentioned my name to you?” Loki answered.

 

And the paler god steps closer, wrapping his fingers softly around Thor’s own. He helps them adjust to the sword hilt with a pleasant stability; Thor lets himself breathe in the scent of grape vines between the colder body and his own. His heart hammers against the skin of his chest.

 The pale skin lets off a bittersweet fragrance that leaves ugly marks inside the boy’s head.

 

 

“It was because he was afraid I would kill you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The day Thor first heard Loki laugh was when he found himself in front of his elder’s presence with a blackened eye. He offended a girl. The girl who was standing in the training pits alongside the boys, holding a sword, wearing a tunic and a pair of trousers. Her name was Sif, and she was a hard puncher.

Thor was feeling grumpy. He almost refused when Loki extended a hand, reckoning him to come close. Pale fingers wave at the air, and as they gently dab at his face, a strange sensation washes over his senses.

 

His cheeks tingle with a cold prickle before the ugly purple bruise disappears, leaving his swollen eyes back to their normality.

 

“Girls are strange.” Thor remarks. “She’s the first I’ve seen that wants to hold a sword.”

 Loki is briefly reminded of the years back before Frigga was married to Odin. He stops at the image of Frigga and her flashing dagger.

 

“Oh don’t worry little prince.” Loki replied, his voice placid. “Girls will find you stranger.”

 Despite Loki’s lack of appreciation for Thor’s company, the boy always found a way to pester the paler man at his side. It was almost surprising how the boy managed to find him everywhere. That was, until Loki picked it up that Heimdall was spilling his cold frozen beans all over Thor’s platter.

 

His motives were very much similar with each visit, Thor apparently wanted to learn. When the boy realized that swinging his sword with two hands, which that grabbing the right angle to swing with balance was actually effective, he came running wild at every tutoring session away from the school to where Loki was peacefully minding his own business.

 If only just to get him out of his hair, Loki was doing the last damn thing he was planning to do in the course of his life, and that was tutoring Thor. The Norns had a very funny way of saying ‘have some bollocks.’

 Surprisingly, Thor was a good student and Loki was an efficient mentor. The strange extreme opposite chemistry between the two unlikely participants of each other’s company complimented them quite effectively.

 

Loki difficultly came to terms with the fact that Thor was a bright learner. He was a gifted child, talents passed on from his father. His disdain was not going to get in the way of admitting that he was a genius in his own field. The boy knew by instinct how to carry himself in battle, how to improvise with his knowledge that he was fed.

 So he taught him the steps. How to read the flow of movements, how when one arm moves the other arm will swing, how to counter attack, how to defend, how to look for the weakest spot. Thor learned how to listen for the direction of an incoming assault, how to slash, how to hack, how to pierce and how to jab.

 And with each day of the weeks that passed, Thor grew stronger and faster. It was like watching a cub transgress to a lion. Albeit Loki found that thought disturbing, he wasn’t sure how he would like that future.

 

Strange boy indeed, Loki thought.

 

“You’re the first I’ve seen that does the craft.”

 

The voice dragged Loki back to the living. He blinked, snapping his attention back to the sweaty youth, giving up his sword to sprawl himself across the grass. The forest grows quiet when he stops speaking, Thor breathes steadily into the dense air, listening to the birds chirping their trail.

 

“First from among men, I mean.”

“Is it that strange?”

“You know how to fight though. You are strong, a better fighter than most.”

 Loki puzzled if he should take that as a compliment. Thor had a way of saying things, things without intention, just an honest straight forwardness that sometimes irritated Loki.

 

“You think women are weaker.” Loki concluded.

 Thor scrunched, his expression stiffened. “The way you say it aloud, makes it sound wrong.”

 

The boy turned his eyes down, still lying on his back. His arms scratched at the dirt in a soft line, unable to gather up everything he wanted to say. Loki had a strange effect on him, ever since their official encounter at the training grounds. Anything he said aloud, Loki strived to digress and flip it around. Thor was used to approval, being denied was, strange.

 “Nobody said it was wrong.” Thor continued to mutter, “Just that we were supposed to protect our maidens. If they were stronger than us, men would not need to protect, would they?”

 

Oh. Where was Odin when his own son needed some much needed moral guidance? This certainly was not going to sprout from Loki, he himself thought. Everything would be damned if he had to start preaching about rights and wrongs, Asgardians loved their rights and wrongs.

 

“So you do think they are weaker. That they do not belong in the scene of battle.” Loki announced, solemn in his voice which made Thor fidget.

 “Little prince, if I practice the craft of women, does that make me weaker than the other men? Do you feel the need to protect me?”

 

It came out as a cynical little chant, a mean vice hidden somewhere along the chords of his sentence. It was not intentional, merely a harmless piece of malice. So yet, Loki was taken aback when Thor looked regretfully at the air. The boy sat up slowly, gathering his hands together like he committed a crime. He looked smaller.

 “Was I wrong to say those things to Sif?”

 

Loki did not answer immediately. He studied Thor carefully, without a single blink. He did not mock the sincerity of the boy; Loki had no intention of laughing at his dilemma. The green eyed god had no wish for the boy to start relying on him for the moral decisions Thor has to make.

 But Thor was lost. Surrounded by the intrigue of the courts, his only access for emotions with his mother a tender one, with a war lord of a father missing for the important times in his life, treated differently from the others, expected to accept that as a natural thing.

 

_The road that Laufey once said was the loneliest of all roads._

 

And now he wanted to know how to think. It was important for him. Loki shook his head, ever so slightly. So subtle that Thor did not know what it meant.

 “No one can rightfully tell another what they believe is wrong, Thor.”

 Thor flinches at the mention of his name from the other’s lips. The whispers of Loki are haunting. Thor meets those green eyes, darker than the leaves and the grass. The god of tales meets his eye on the ground, kneeling on one knee.

 

“But it does not mean that what you believe is right, either.”

 “Then what is?”

 “You cannot do anything to prove a belief right or wrong, little prince.”

 Loki can see the frustration grow on Thor’s expression. The tightly clenched fists and the stiffened jaw speak for the boy. But Loki cuts across the boy’s retort, his face stern and eyes like the winter morning.

 

“But for every belief, there will be a reason. Just like you believe that you are not inferior because you know you are capable, Sif has reasons to believe she wants to, and can swing a sword as good as any other. How would you feel if another condemns that reason, saying that is wrong?”

 The boy looks troubled, realization sinking in.

 

“You are simply different. Everyone is. You are free to make your judgments and decisions Thor, but the truth should not rely on what the others make you believe. Decide your own truth by giving differences a chance.”

 Loki raises a hand under the boy’s chin, lifting his guilty face. The boy will take his years to understand everything he said. Perhaps he won’t understand them at all. Perhaps he will never be able to understand anything he wanted to convey. But he went on, his voice soothing.

 

“Two people cannot converse when one is blocking their ears.” The pale hands stray away from the sun touched skin. It makes its way lower down, where the scarlet of all hearts beat. He presses against where the warm organ pulse the hardest.

 

“Always give reason a chance.”

 

And despite everything, Thor felt his lips go numb as Loki’s hands left his heart.

 

“I want to apologize to Sif.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Frigga remembers all the days when Thor would vent out his frustrated childish ramblings all over her newly spun threads. The days when it rained without reason, the child would often be in a miserable mood.

 Nothing of good response came when he was in such moods. A moody Thor meant a moody sky and a moody tantrum. Frigga preferred her smiling son, no matter how much she could unquestioningly love every aspect of him.

 

It came as an expected surprise when he started to talk of an all too familiar description of a man whom Frigga knew only too well. Odin had respected Loki’s wish to stay away from the child, and the queen worried that their last recent meeting would drive a rift in that promise. And although he was reluctant, Frigga was happy to see that Loki was no longer trying to shut himself up from the entire community to avoid encountering her grown babe.

 Odin kept to himself with the reasons why he let Loki lock himself away in his own tower. Frigga wished not to question her king’s decisions, but pondered from time to time.

 Thor always had something to say about Loki. The things he would grunt unhappily about, the days when he came in fuming with a mouthful of curses that made his mother frown.

 

 _‘He’s always so cold. He’s mean and nasty. Everyone says he is a bad omen, and I can see why.’_ The child would rant on. ‘ _I don’t think he likes me.’_

_It does not matter though. I don’t like him either._

_But he knows a lot of things. I want to learn from him._

Frigga did not know whether or not she should be alarmed at such perspective. Loki was complicated. The queen would have had better chance of understanding the mind of an imaginary monster than she would understand that of Loki.

 But the last thing she would want to acknowledge was the fact that Loki would deliberately harm Thor in any way. It was just plain and simple, and she found it strange that it seemed only she that understood that. How could no one see it as a fact? The queen wonders, as she steps inside the fire lit room, the warmth of the bedroom welcoming her as she came face to face with a dark haired god, Thor straddled comfortably on his back.

 

“Your boy fell asleep in my tower.” Loki grumbles, shifting the weight. “Tell him to stop sneaking inside my library, or I will eat him.”

 “He’s growing on you, Loki.” Frigga whispers, helping the god put her boy back down onto her bed.

 

Loki pulls a face, and with a restrained grunt manages to pull free from Thor’s arms that clung onto his back and plops him onto the open sheets. The boy snores rather loudly, Loki decides that Odin is a better sleeper.

 

“The last thing your son wants to do is grow in my company, my queen. Believe me.”

 “I do believe you. You brought him back safely to his mother’s arms. What more evidence do we need?”

 

Loki can despise that smile all he wished and still have time to dislike it more. Frigga did not seem to mind, as she pulls on the blanket above the sleeping Thor, the queen goddess beams warmly at the green eyed god.

 “I am not making a joke your highness. I will boil him alive and devour him if I find him hiding in my bookshelf again.” Loki spits out his words in a firm stiffness, Frigga was oblivious to the little speckle of truth within that threat.

 “I know you care about him. More or less how much I care about my child, Loki.”

 

The god offers no retort, nor a reply. He simply looks at her with a tired expression, offering neither denial nor acceptance. Loki turns his eyes to watch Thor sleep, a brief moment before he turns his head around and backs away from the curtained sleeping space.

 “Many times I wondered. With each curious little accident that Thor gets himself welcomed into.” Frigga speaks, in a warm calm as she sits at the side of her bed, stroking the blonde hair buried on the pillows. “How he manages to avoid the worst of all outcomes.”

 

She lifts her eye, meets them with Loki. The god of tailored tales.

 

“I never thanked you for always looking out for him.”

 “I did not.”

 

“Thank you.” The All-mother whispers. “Loki.”

 

 

Loki feels a sharp jab at his throat. He hurries to step back, out of their presence. He leaves a musky sentence that lingers hollowly in the air.

 

 

“I do not deserve your gratitude, All-mother.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“It is rather ironic.”

 

When the sun draws down at night, the citadel welcomes the darker blanket that covers the sky. Then the quiet comes, everyone closes their eyes to fall into a moment of bliss. To where they dream, and let rest their tired minds.

 All except for the vigilant guardian standing between the pillars of the Bifrost.

 

The ebony god stands into the night, a sword firm in his hands. His golden eye flashes briefly before returning to their vibrant hue.

 

“This realm.” Loki mutters, sitting in a small ball upon the edge of Heimdall’s station. “Is too warm.”

 

Both gods stood, shrouded in the shade and the silence. Their conversation always remained dull and speechless, most of the times Loki rambling onto himself which only sounded like it was directed at the other. While Heimdall was not much of a speaker, he remained not a good listener.

 But that was why Loki was happy to talk by his side. Heimdall did not listen carefully. He only saw, and from what he sees decides which words to listen to. It made him an easy totem for a rhetorical conversation which needed no feedback.

 

“A crow arrived in the nest this morning. Odin is returning soon. Was he victorious?”

 Heimdall did not answer. Instead the golden clad god stared stiffly at the nothingness, pupils wary from the darkness. He merely let out a soft breath, before giving a slow nod.

 

Loki was tired. With every day that passes, Ragnarok draws nearer. Restlessness grows no longer how many eons they had left to desperately twist the chords of fate. To gnaw at the decided course of what the creatures called destiny. A chessboard of the Norns.

 The palest god snickered, a dark chuckle emitting from his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to grab the coldest of airs that ran through the night. A slender hand reaches into the hooded black, no stars no moon in that direction.

 

And then a deep low voice scratches at the blissful silence.

 

 

“Do you miss your homeland?”

 

 

 

 

And Loki cannot care less about how much Heimdall would find out as he replies.

 

 

 

 

“Never.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. The sticks and stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well you never tell me about the wars you fought in.” the boy pipes up, crawling his way through the smothered books and approaching a very sulky Loki in the darkest corner. “You don’t tell me anything about yourself.”
> 
> “Do I need to?” Loki grimaces as the boy makes himself comfortable beside him, a little too close for his liking.
> 
> “Can I call you uncle?”  
> “No.”
> 
> “It was worth a try.” Thor laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Cheers for the kudos and comments that you left. I'm still experimenting with the style of my writing, I've been writing too many essays and have lost most of my senses for creative narrative, pardon me. Although Jig's writing challenge has been closed off, I will continue with this fanfiction as my personal work.
> 
> I appreciate you readers for everything, thank you.

 

 

 

 

A crow swoops in.

 

And it lands banging itself into his bookshelf.

 

Loki pulls a face at the bird. Its wings flutter weakly for a few seconds, before it manages to gather up his feathers and crawl out beneath the pile of books. It made quite a mess of everything.

 

“Muninn.”

The god calls out her name, and the crow repeats a hoarse croak. The embodiment of memory was getting old, flying could never be her exact forte. Loki gives it a dark stare before he reaches out, his movement crude when grabbing the crow between his fingers.

 

Muninn is not happy about being manhandled. However, she does not complain when Loki meets their eyes, and the crow starts whispering the knowledge into his mind. Soon she disappears, guided back outside the window with a ghastly little magpie gliding beside her, leaving a thin trail of emerald green.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sounds of the war horns rip apart the clouds. The booming cheer shakes the ground; as the soldiers march in towards the interior of the citadel through the crowd throwing their petals and pollen. Those who return from Svartalfar in their most glorious attire, chins held high.

 

Thor is ecstatic when the messengers arrive to announce the return of their king. Golden spears hold up the scarlet banners in the distance, and the boy cannot wait to shoot up to the isle of kings to greet his father’s victory march. Frigga stands beside her child, her dress well adorned and decorated with the purest of jewels and velvet.

From the high steps of the royal quarters the parade sight is majestic to behold. It was a long campaign; the last of the wars in that scale upon the land of Útgarðar was in the time of Bor. Veterans march up the road one row after another, and soon Odin rides out at the front.

 

The All-father, god king Odin with his Gungnir gripped tightly by his side. The noble houses all come forward to raise their greetings, Frigga and their son at the very first steps. Odin shows his appreciation for the welcome in his own ascetically dignified way; the king embraces his queen with a gentle yet firm affection. Thor beams like the sun itself as Odin kneels down, meeting his eyes as he extends a hand to ruffle at the boy’s hair.

Celebrations are once again in order. Asgardians loved their festivals, Loki quietly slinks away from the victory cheers and bright lights flooded by lanterns. The doors of the central palace open for the giant banquet, and even by the evening when the sun is pulled away, the celebrating lights flash hotter than the sunlight.

 

“I hope you had fun, while I was rotting here.”

 

Loki chants, indifferent to the presence taking his seat beside him by the balcony. Odin shrugs, swatting off his brother’s snakes that hiss away at his goblet. The sounds of merry making can be heard even from such distance, the view below was packed full of people drunk in joy.

 

“Frigga tells me you spent a lot of time with my son.”

“Tell your boy to stop pestering me, or I will eat him.”

He gains a chuckle from Odin for that remark. Loki could tell that Odin was treading carefully around the topic. The king only briefly studied the other’s face before putting down his cup. Loki’s expression did not change from his usual disdain of the world, and he muttered out a snide remark before taking another sip from his own silver cup.

 

“It is your turn to be tortured with your son’s company, Borson.”

“I am certain that he cannot be much different than my younger self.” Odin pipes.

“Exactly.” replied Loki, and Odin could not help but let out a guilty laugh.

 

Loki’s eyes still remain among the crowd of joy makers despite their conversation. He was not surprised to find a handful of elves at the table. Some were the forest Vanir, whom were the residents of the perimeters of Útgarðar, and the other group were the delegation of dark elves from Svartalfar.

They had glum faces, forced into the position of ambassadors to agree upon a peaceful truce which was sure to become their demise.

 

“You sent Muninn two days earlier before riding the bifrost.” Loki opens his lips, shaking the contents of his cups without taking a further sip. Odin nods, his laugh lines reverting back to their sincerity.

“An artifact was found in Svartalfar, the ones we have seen in the deepest grounds of the holy city in Midgard.”

“An Infinity stone? In the lands of Malekith?”

 

Loki turned his head around sharply, meeting Odin’s gaze.

“The stone of space. Powerful beyond our understanding.” The king states, expression concerned. “And not really within Malekith’s borders, it resides within the kingdom of the dwarves.”

“The dwarves are part of the alliance, why the tedious hassle?”

Odin lets out a sigh, his voice tired. “The dwarves are not happy with our commencing truce with the dark elves. Their rivalries were harsh, and now we have a diplomatic disaster with the upcoming conference for the truce.”

 

It only took a few minutes before Loki stiffened his posture, snapping his eyes open at his king. Odin, who had already braced himself for the impact could not help but offer a dry look at the paler god as his eyebrows shot upwards in alarm.

“You invited the dwarves into the conference? Here?”

 

“Well.”

Odin slowly averts his gaze, avoiding the green, piercing, glare.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Vile, twisted, abhorrent creatures.”

 

Thor yelped, narrowly avoiding the green bellied cobra snapping at his way. The boy made a face, his brows tight in confusion as he watched Loki sulking in his tower. The man only turned his gaze halfheartedly when Thor entered his inner sanctum.

 

“What do you have against the dwarvenfolk?”

“How many times do I need to tell you to get out, before you actually take a hint?” Loki hisses at Thor’s puzzlement.

 

“You are like a girl, when you do that.” The boy replies, all in his childish honesty. It makes Loki blink a few times in silence, taking the comment in with an exasperated breath. “When you become all annoyed and sensitive for no reason I mean. Like Elija, she’s like that every half-moon.”

 _Well,_ Loki decides silently, there were worse insults that he actually would have found offensive. He concludes he does not want to lash out at Thor, _yet_.

“What do you know about girls, little prince.” Loki huffed.

Thor frowned. “I will have you know,” he gapes, “I have many girls that favor me, I know.”

 

Loki rolled his eyes. The way he actually _said it,_ makes it sound that much more irritatingly obnoxious. Thor was not yet old enough to fully grasp the workings of love and sexual emotions, his words were still restricted to the immature drawings between borderline platonic attractions. It was all too insignificant for Loki, who was feeling too much of an arsehole to care right there and then.

Spending the next couple of days dreading the presence of the dwarves had done nothing positive to Loki’s foul mood. Thor found himself searching for the pale god in the perilous maze of a tower built on illusions; it took a while for him to figure out all the fake walls. He remembers Loki’s familiar – the black dire wolf - being bigger, but that was a long time ago.

 

“Tyr told me you fought in the war of Jötunnheim with my father.”

Thor has a shine in his eyes, and he does not notice the stiffened tips of Loki’s fingers.

 

“Oh, did he?” comes the nonchalant voice, which does nothing to discourage Thor and his wave of questions that were refused to be answered by his elder.

“Well you never tell me about the wars you fought in.” the boy pipes up, crawling his way through the smothered books and approaching a very sulky Loki in the darkest corner. “You don’t tell me anything about yourself.”

“Do I need to?” Loki grimaces as the boy makes himself comfortable beside him, a little too close for his liking.

“Can I call you uncle?”

“No.”

 

“It was worth a try.” Thor laughs. “They told me they couldn’t have won that war without you.”

And something about the way his voice sounded, like he was proud, left something bile in Loki’s stomach. Of course they would not have won the war. Not without the casket of ancient winters. Not without one of their very own black sheep among the herd. The cold flames by the hearth flicker weakly as Loki turns his expressionless face around, back out the window.

 

“Wars aren’t as glorious as you think.” The paler god murmurs. “No matter how much Tyr wants to glorify them.”

“But that was you, we won. Those beasts in Jötunnheim were evil and barbaric, they were hurting our people. It is good that we won right?”

 _Our people._ Who were ‘our people’? A pale finger drops, still at the hem of his coat. A cold dizziness plagues the insides of his black mind before Loki manages to blink away the disgusting feeling.

 

“I want to become a king like my father.”

The boy jumps up, his eyes the warmest shade of blue. And Loki could not help feel but tense at his words. A King, just like his own father, how the boy was oblivious to everything. _He was afraid that I would kill you._ His own voice echoes inside his head, and he grows quiet with each word that passes.

A dark voice whispers _, you should have, a long time ago_. The only way to ensure balance is to destroy every threat that exists. Odin now believes that through peace and alliance, they would be able to create harmony. A peace that would last to avoid Ragnarok. And Thor was a liability.

 

Loki did not believe in chances. It was ironic when he went on to say Thor should give differences a chance. Truth is; Loki did not want the unpredictability of Thor into his future. No. Not when the fates so direly insisted he would be the one to bring the destruction of all.

 

The kin-slayer, traitor of his own people, the Jötunnar who hides beneath the vain sunlight of Asgard.

 

“When I grow up, I want to protect my people.”

And Loki blinks, without realizing his eyes were on the sharp edges of Gram’s blade. He turns his face around to meet with Thor, who was giving him the brightest of smiles that was so familiar in his memory. He feels the unwanted warmth wash away his cold winter, and Loki suddenly feels at ease.

 

It was hard to admit such things.

“I want to protect my mother, and friends, Sif and all.” Thor continues, with his eyes upon the cloudless sky outside the view of Loki’s small window. “And you too.”

 

Loki frowned.

“Not because you are weak though. I want to, because you are my friend too.”

 

That golden grin is absolutely infuriating, Loki thinks. And yet, his dislike was not sincere. He felt a sharp pain tug at the back of his neck. _If only you knew._ The pale god swallows his unspoken words.

“You will never be able to protect me, Odinson.”

And Thor laughs like a fool. A brave, naïve fool.

 

“I will.” He replies. “You will see.”

 _Now tell me about the wars, I want to hear about them_. The boy sings.

 

And Loki cannot help but start weaving his tales.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thor has not admitted it aloud yet, but he is impressed with Loki’s attire at the night of the official banquet.

 

It was the last day of the celebration before the conference at the summit of Yggdrasil was commencing for the truce. The central governing body of Asgard attended with their families in the wishes of good will, all in their best formalities.

It was part of traditions, and although Thor had a problem with his royal scarlet overcoat getting all over his way of movement, the boy certainly did enjoy being a part of the event as Odin’s heir. Court manners were quite a few steps behind in Thor’s education; the young god of thunder was having difficulties managing with his oversized necklace of gold and the layers of decorated velvet.

 

He was disappointed to see that Loki was having no problem at all, and the paler god was the one in a more intricate piece of formal attire. It was new to see Loki outside his black furred coat, wearing a light armor of a brighter shade of green adorned with golden plates and decorative chains, his darkly colored cloak elegantly resting over his body.

Contrary to Thor’s usual perception of Loki sulking in the shadows, the god of tall tales caught glances from the others with his dark beauty underneath the golden horned crown. The young god of thunder was at a loss for words when he first saw him walk out from the corridors, accompanying his mother and father.

 

“Nice feathers.” Loki mentions, tickling at the metallic feather piece that decorated Thor’s thin circlet. The boy grunts, and stares rather enviously at his father’s headpiece, in all its golden glory of a helm.

“You’re the one to say.” The boy replies grumpily, and manages to attempt a lie. “Yours looks like a cow. Not impressive at all.”

“It is not supposed to be impressive. It is supposed to make me feel ridiculous and stifle me to death with the shame.” Loki answers sarcastically.

 

The delegation of dark elves arrives after the king, and they offer their traditional greetings. Thor notices the bitterness of their way of talking and looking. The child god was all against letting the elves into their midst, he could never understand why his father, Odin, was trying to bargain a peace with those abysmal creatures at all.

Some of their generals agreed that just like the Jötunnar, they will stick a blade into your back as soon as Asgard shows any sign of weakness. Thor could not help but nod at this wisdom.

The dark elves were too alien, much like the images Thor saw of the frost giants. They were of similar size, some were thinner than the others, but all clad in black robes of dark metallic veils, pasty, grey skinned and red eyed. They had a weird thing for carrying small thin daggers in between the flaps of their robes; he caught the sight of a pale sharp edge when one excused himself from his mother’s presence for feeling too drunk.

 

A handful of them said their greetings and made little bows to the prince of Asgard, and Thor cannot help but feel the familiar look of passive dislike in their pupils.

Odin meets the important figures for small chats, and Thor is restless by the time the wine is served. The boy is still years away from diplomatic gatherings; and the lack of excitement in the atmosphere slowly drains away at the energetic youth. Just when he was about to start sagging his expression, the wine servant screams away in panic when his goblet suddenly bursts with snakes.

 

The red faced servant is flustered, and Thor cannot help but laugh along with the portion of the room that chases away at the disappearing man behind the kitchen walls. The boy scans around the room to find Loki, who gives him a smirk when he retracts his fingers, squeezing them back into his hands as the snakes disappear with a thin trail of emerald green smoke.

Loki knows the boy too well, Thor appreciates the small jest.

“I loathe gatherings.” The darker haired man mutters, the very personification of the word loathing apparent in his expression. Thor is amused, and at the same time concerned just a little.

“You really do not like the dwarves, do you?”

Loki only glances briefly at the pack of dwarves, sharing their gallons of wine with the other men around the table of roasted game and fruits. Their bellows are loud, their boasts are too rigid, and they are spiteful little creatures. His lips itch even at the sight of their short beards.

 

“I do not.”

“Why?”

“I loathe questions too.”

Thor pouts, but earns no further answers from the paler god. “I admit they are weird though.” The boy adds. Loki seems lost in his own train of thoughts, but Thor had no one else in the room who would be considerably less demanding to talk and listen to.

 

“Some of them carry blades underneath their robe flaps. Is it their culture?” Thor puzzles, lightly.

He certainly was not expecting such an immediate reaction from Loki, who snaps away from his thoughts and meets his eyes with the child.

 

“Who? The dwarves?”

“No, the elves.”

Thor did not know what to think when Loki wheeled around, pushing him forwards into the crowd. There was a slight of panic inside his voice when he urged Thor to go back to his mother. Something about the command seemed urgent and sincere, and the boy soon found himself jogging through the crowd to find his mother. He briefly caught the glimpse of Loki striding in haste towards Odin, his mouth agape with a sound before a piercing scream echoes through the halls.

 

He heard nothing else when the sound of a screeching arrow ripped through the bellowing laughs, a flower budding of scarlet red bloomed grotesquely when the metal struck itself deep into the neck of a handmaiden standing beside his mother. Thor stood petrified, the moment he met eyes with the fallen maiden with her life ebbing away from her iris.

 

_Assassins!_

A man yells out loud, and the outbreak of chaos tumbles everything into rich shades of black and scarlet. A disgusting stench of fresh blood sweeps away at the banquet hall as daggers are plunged into the skin, the drunk who have little help from their cloudy minds when the shadow clad elves descend from the sides, daggers flashing pale.

More arrows scream their way past the wind, and only fail to meet their target when an angry bellow of Odin All-father stamps his Gungnir upon the ground. The earth quakes for a moment before the floor is covered in blood. Skins are torn apart as the misguided arrowheads and daggers land all over the place, into faces unintended.

 

A soldier grabs his shoulder, and Thor yells in alarm. The startled boy sees the fight unfold as the guards come to protect his frame, he can hear Frigga calling his name from across the hall. The first instinct tells him to run to his mother, to make sure no harm comes to her.

The child god, valiant in all his years, dash towards his mother angrily as he sees another attacker approach her side; and for a moment Thor is terrified that Frigga would fall. He sees the venomous edge of Gram cut clean through her attacker, and Loki stands pale, unwavering as he pulls his sword back out from the flesh that pours out blood.

 

“Mother!”

 _Aim for the prince._ A chilling whisper of foreign tongues echoed along the shouting that filled the room. Odin is too distracted from the three of the assassins intent on murdering him in cold blood, Frigga screams desperately as one quick arrow from a dying murderer flies through the air.

 

Loki reaches out, his expression ridden in chaos. The arrow gives out a shrill cry, it sings past his face in the blink of a single eye. His lips feel numb. Speechless,

 

As the single arrow pierces itself deep into Thor’s chest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Words lose their echo. It pulses through the walls. A hand claws sharply at the barriers of his mind, leaving the dirty discarded pieces of unwanted emotions in its wake.

Everything is lost. How to breathe, how to think, how to speak, and all that is left are the primeval instincts that forces the motors of his body.

 

Loki only lets go of Thor wrapped tightly in his arms when the healers urgently convince him that they need to hurry. A flurry of movements that he does not recognize takes place in the royal chambers, the white robed healers in haste with their magic flourishing all over the room.

Blood pours, and Loki stares emptily at his arms covered in the hottest of all bloods that were red. The sanguine sight takes away his breath, his face flushed deathly pale. The boy lays limp at the bed, his breath in jagged pieces. Sunlight drains from his golden complexion, veins and arteries defined in their sickly color.

 

Frigga rushes into the room, followed by the All-father who is still covered in the vile blood of black and ash. The mother is devastated by the sight, her lips thin like her husband, expression distorted in horror.

 

“Poison, my king.”

“Get it out of him, immediately.”

Odin orders with a voice which only betrays him when it trembles.

 

Loki finds silence when he seeks the child’s voice. Thor’s laughter rings in his head. The warm grin that never left the boy’s face, it was now cold and gone from his paled skin looming with a shadow of the reapers.

_Because you are my friend too._

“It is no poison like any other we have seen, we need Eir to return immediately.”

Frigga bites her lips. “She still rests in Lyfjaberg. How long until she gets here?”

“Eir will not make it in time.” Loki finally opens his lips, and coldly spits out his frozen answer. Odin stares at him with a stern gaze, while Frigga spins around at him. Before she can say anything else however, Loki stops her with a piercing look. The dark haired god turns, glancing at the All-father.

 

“I need everyone to leave.” He speaks, and the others remain silent. It was not until Loki’s impatience gets the better of him that he started to yell. “Or we could all sit and wait here for the boy to die!”

“Leave us.”

Odin gives his command, and the healers reluctantly shuffle out of the death covered room. Frigga stubbornly remains, until Odin grasps her hands in his in a gentle squeeze. Frigga takes one last look at her child, before she quietly disappears from the chambers.

Loki wastes no second, he approaches the bed next to Thor with his arms outstretched. The pale fingers draw at the poisoned body, watching quietly as the colors drain away. Odin stays motionless, unable to do anything for his son.

 

“You know this smell.” The All-father whispers, barely audible.

“The venom of Jormungand.”

There was no remorse in his voice, only a dark regret ridden with hatred and anger.

 

“If it stays inside him any longer, he will die.” Loki holds Thor’s paled face in his hands, gently lifting it to meet parallel to his eyes. “I will have to absorb it inside myself. There is no other way to purify the venom, it will not disappear.”

“When will you be able to wake up again?”

“It depends.”

And with such reply, Odin cannot ask anymore. The All-father steps back, nodding with his dark one eyed gaze. _Thank you, Loki._ The king offers with his voice, a cruel bitter laugh from the god of lies rejects his gratitude. _Do not thank me._

 

Odin watches as Loki bends down, closer to the face of his dying son. Breathless and cold, like a marble stone. The laugh of a young boy, a golden youth of the most blue of all eyes, his image hammering against the pitch black mind of the green eyed god.

 _Perhaps. You should have killed him a long time ago._ A dark voice whispers. _It’s not too late. Odin will revert back to destroying the chain and your fate will be secure._

Loki closes his eyes.

When another voice pushes in.

 

_I will protect you._

_You will see._

 

And then he wishes the voice alive. He wishes with all his heart that the skin under his fingers would return into their glorious sunlight, touched by gold. He wished for the healthy complexion back, the honest smile, the babe who gave him the most loving gurgle of affection when they first met. Above the failing breath of the boy’s lips, Loki gently sucks in the gasp of pain.

_Because you are my friend._

 

 

Loki braces himself.

 

The last and only things he remember are the ugly pains, the seething rage of hurt that burns away his insides, rots and gnaws at his burning body as he drops down, spitting out everything inside him onto the floor. His tainted blood leaks away from his lips, and the world goes numb.

 

 

Everything goes black.

Into nothingness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hel smiles at him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. The scars in your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The green eyed god quietly makes his way across the burning forest, and lays a hand down at the small child weeping by the corpse of a white she-wolf, her innards spilling out onto the snow.
> 
> It was the first time I cried so hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Updated in separate chapters general notes are same with chapter 5.  
> Chapter warnings for mentions of non-con/abuse. (Tags will be updated.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A child sits at the edge of the mountain covered in snow.

Winter will never end. Nothing will grow on that ground. Nothing will give life to another in that accursed realm.

 

The man stands from the apex. He is a pale man, his skin a poor imitation of the beings of Asgard, the Æsir. His eyes were green, every feature sharp and jagged, thin and slender. The child tilts his head, pale blue in complexion, reptile yellow circling his eyes.

_Who are you?_

The child asks. In a language that was too lost for the man. He says nothing. Silence keeps until the man takes the small blue hands into his own. The tiny Jötunn does not flinch away, and Loki looks sadly down at the lonely figure.

 

_You are my past._

_And this is my nightmare._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Loki Laufeyjarson, the unwanted child of Laufey’s brood._

_Born to be unloved, born to be hated._

 

The child kept his sigil hidden. For many days he would watch the royal family march out on their expedition, the two young princes Byleistr and Helblindi at their king’s side. They had the same markings of their mother, on the backs of their shoulders and their arms.

When the snow failed to murder the babe left to die at the foot of the ancients’ temple, the high priests of the _Agri_ , the masters of Ergi tore out the royal markings on the child’s body with the dagger of winter. Their king had ordered the babe to die, murdered by the fate woven from the hands of Skuld. But the priests saw the wolves come. Sköll, the being who chases the sun howled when the babe gave out a cry underneath the snow.

 

So they slashed at his frosted skin, drawing blood and mutilating the marks on the babe’s hips, his back, all across his broken spine. The marks which connected him to his father, Laufey king of Jötunnheim.

The wolves took the babe, licked him back to health. The queen of the pack, a giant white she-wolf shared her tit with the child who soon grew to walk and run amongst the migrating beasts within the dying forests and mountains.

 

Loki remembers all the reasons why he felt so close to the wolves. The affinity he shared with the lupines. Sköll was an enemy of Asgard, the werewolf who had no intention of saving the babe. The wolf god would probably not even remember him; Loki was sure, but his howl had unintentionally allowed life for the babe who was doomed to die.

For a brief moment on this premature phase of his life, Loki felt happiness. He was free and safe, surrounded by his pack. The giant white wolf who sniffed at him affectionately, shared her meat and blood from the fresh kill between her fangs, pushing the nutrients down his throat with her tongue. The others carried him across the lands of winter, kept him warm with their fur at the endless nights that came by.

 

_Did you mourn?_

A voice asks. And Loki nods. The fire burns in front of him, frozen blood seeps through the cracks of the glaciers. It drenches the whiteness with a vile color, spears and axes retrieved from the headless bodies of the wolves.

The green eyed god quietly makes his way across the burning forest, and lays a hand down at the small child weeping by the corpse of a white she-wolf, her innards spilling out onto the snow.

_It was the first time I cried so hard._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes he wondered if death would be bliss. The boy knew that his dreams would become the death of him someday. Those agonizing dreams of a loving family that wanted him in their future, a dream filled with affection, and of warmth.

So when he laid starved, cold and exhausted on nothing, the child dreamt of dying. The snowstorm raged outside his cave, his thin fingers dared not to make one move as he closed his eyes. He listened to the wind howl.

The pale man sat beside the motionless child, one of his knees tucked in towards his chest. Loki rested the chin on his knees, eyeing the vicious wind outside. He made no movement and said no words. He already knew how this was going to lead.

 

The child turns his head around, slowly. With shaking hands the little Jötunn holds up his arms above him, eyeing the sigils that healed ever so perfectly over the years. Loki looks glumly down at the child, a dark look in his eyes.

 _No._ He whispers. But the child does not listen.

_You will find no salvation there. Do not be such an imbecile._

Loki’s hisses are futile. The small blue Jötunn staggers himself up on his feet, and starts walking away from the cave. The man watches the boy go, his throat too torn to call out, telling him to stop.

 

The boy does not stop. He walks for the palace of Laufey.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The slaying of kin was the worst of crimes among the Jötunnar. It was a codex that must be kept, a law which ordered the balance of their warrior culture. It was the only thing that kept Laufey from murdering his third son himself, and the spear kept its place within his grasp when the boy appeared, back from the doors of the dead, back from the damned souls of Nifleheim.

Sigils marked upon the Jötunn skin were hereditary assets of their ancestors. It tied them to their sire, a bond which cannot be broken unless death was natural. The priests burned for their disobedience, but their ashes did nothing to take back the presence of Laufey’s youngest son from his people. The runt of Jötunnheim; the child who ate the womb of queen Fárbauti, ended up being born from her suffering and death.

 

Loki carried the markings from his mother, her distinct spirals upon his body and face. The boy had the hardened eyes unlike any of his brothers, the eyes that have seen the pits of death himself. He did not flinch, when the first words spat out from his father’s mouth were cold and savage.

 

_Get that pathetic thing out of my sight._

The child turns his head around, meeting gazes with the two older boys beside his father. His brothers, they say nothing as they watch him be dragged away from father’s throne room.

 

 _Naïve fool._ The pale man sneers, shoulders leaning by the shadow of the pillars beside the throne. He watches himself be carried away by the guards, with the crime of _being born_ convicting him. Laufey casts a glare at the empty place where his last child stood;

 

_It should have died that day._

_The shame of my house, of Jötunnheim._

His voice echoed darkly along the halls.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first time Loki crosses path with his brother, Helblindi nearly beats him to death. Loki has never been pummeled so hard, and to be honest, it hurts like fire. He had no idea that a fist could feel so hard against his bones, and it hurt more than the arrows of the hunters, it hurt more than their spears and blue flamed torches. It hurt more than the snowstorm, more than the hunger.

 

It hurt. More than anything, and he had no idea why.

Helblindi sneers down at his youngest brother with the darkest red of all hatreds. He accuses the little runt for murdering his mother, and with a last fist that strikes down at the boy’s face, blood drips from his knuckles like an open wound. Loki feels his face burn, and blinks emptily at his own pool of scarlet down at the ground. It seeps through his toes, like sin. Byleistr says nothing, and he avoids looking at his youngest brother altogether.

They leave him bruised and broken, in the abandoned wings of the frozen palace. He is alone again, no one by his side, no one to show him the way. The child stares out at the blackened corridors, unsure if he should move, or bleed to death where he lay.

 

He imagined if death would be bliss.

 _Well?_   _The green eyed god whispers. What did you expect? A warm welcome with open arms?_

The thin little boy does not answer. He stands slowly, gathering his broken arms under his oversized black wolf pelt covering the frail body. I do not know. The child thinks. _I… do not know what they call it._

_I am not sure what love is yet. Acceptance, maybe._

And with that, the pale man turns his head around. He averts away from the small child, abandoning him to stand there, alone and bruised. A tear runs down, and freezes into ice as soon as it touches the ground.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes he called it a lavish dungeon. His father decided to chain his ankles to the pillar of his chambers when Loki attacked Helblindi, nearly causing him to go blind. Years passed in his forgotten corner of the palace, locked away from the eyes of the others.

In there the time went by without consideration. Loki knows this body better than the child, similar to his youthful present albeit thinner and much less muscular. The growing limbs were now longer and elegant than his small weak boy of an appearance. His hair, despite his genus, grew in the most ebony of black shades.

 

It was a warmer night than the other nights; and he could even see the stars outside the barred windows of his wall. Sometimes, when he reached out at the sky through the cold metal, he could grab at the ethereal essence of nothing between his fingers. A few times Loki tried to pull it in, and the green threads only disappeared as soon as he wrapped his hand around them.

He wondered what they were. Not once in his life he ever saw those kinds of threads in the air. They were interesting though, and every night he would reach out to take another touch at those strands. His eyes caught the perfectly aligned stars outside his night sky; Loki glanced upwards in a celestial wander.

 

This realm of snow is beautiful. Despite everything.

 

 _It is not beautiful._ A voice speaks, indifferent and bitter. The taller of the man stands beside the walls, arms crossed and grim.

 

_This is my dream. I know what comes next, and I pity you._

_This is anything but beautiful._

Loki tilts his head in confusion, but finds no time to retort. A clatter echoes alongside the corridors, and his door opens without a single breath of warning. The abandoned prince turns his head around slowly, eyeing the figure approaching through the shadows with a wary eye.

 

It was rare to get a visitor, if ever. Perhaps the other was lost, and Loki steps forward to ask. He had not expected his visitor to suddenly knock him backwards, the male giant’s arms rough and broad. The chains around his thin ankles clatter loudly, and before his eyes can take the strange presence in his room, Loki gasps when a hand grabs his neck and sharply pulls it in.

The prince of winter hisses in pain. The stranger is bigger and taller by all comparison with himself, his scarlet red eyes blazing coldly in the dark room. Loki writhes at the grip, and the unknown frost giant leans in closer with his great icy horns.

 

_Get the hell off of me._

The other sneers, and without effort easily pins down the thin body upon the bed. Loki had no idea where this was going, but his head was in a whirlwind of distorted thoughts that alarmed the core of his senses. His skin tingled with rejection. His mind was screaming blood into his head to get out, wherever he was, far away from there.

 

 _Shut your pretty little mouth, prince._ The giant snarls, his body pushing in between the paler of the blue legs pushed under him.

_Your father the king, offered you as my victory boon._

And Loki stops squirming, his face going blank. He felt numb, the grip on his neck no longer hurtful. The words pierced through his heart like the edge of a spear.

 

_Do you hear me? King Laufey presented you as my whore tonight, to rut like a common bitch._

If emotions had a color, then sadness would be the brightest of all oranges. His tears would be red. And it was hurtful. There was no such word as suffering. A heatless night, he remembers. Two hands that was all too big that gripped at his hips, grinding forwards in a violent act of abuse.

Loki directs his gaze away from himself and the scene. Sprawled across the bedding of his own chambers, an alien presence pushing in between his legs like it was his rightful place. The cold breath that runs down his neck, the negligence of feelings as the member tears into his entrance.

He does not recognize his own scream, neither his own whimpers. He would deny everything that comes out of his mouth, the seething, and the burning pain that covers the lower half of his body that he was losing control of. Along with his empty mind the thin ankles shake limply at the movements of the others hips. The giant tears through him like a beast, ridden with lust. Between the violent thrusts that hit him upwards, he feels the world crumble down around him.

 

It hurts like fire, and Loki wonders if death would be bliss.

 

The green eyed god stands beside the bed, meeting his eyes with the abused prince crying soundlessly underneath the mountain of a body that was bashing into him. The pale man was expressionless, his face abandoning the suffering of everything.

 

 _Crying won’t help._ Loki whispers to himself.

 

_Nobody will come for you anyway._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Byleistr cannot hide the horror in his face when he sees his youngest brother again in decades. He sees the chains clatter at the bony ankle; his darkest chamber reeks of death and a sinister bloom of nightshade. The taller brother sees the corpse of a youth who does not look at him, half of his face bruised with an ugly purple mark. Beneath the sheets the thinned legs show marks of shame, and for a moment Byleistr removes his eyes from the sight in whole.

 

So many times the older of the brothers avoided meeting their gazes. And Loki now understands the reason why.

 

 _It was never pity that he shared with me._ The pale god acknowledges, watching his brother walk towards his broken self upon the bed. _Byleistr knows he has a conscience. He just did not want to end up becoming like Helblindi when if he himself ended up hating me for the murder of our mother._

Loki grins weakly at such insightful commentaries. His lips hurt. They were torn and cold like the dead themselves. Byleistr approaches close, and without looking at him directly, lets out a mangled choke of breath between his lips.

 

There could be no conversation. What more was there to talk about, after all this? Loki entertains himself with the imaginary comments his brother would have shared. But no words are shared, and Byleistr says nothing when he slowly rattles away at the chain, twisting a key into the lock and freeing his brother from the bondage.

Loki eyes him with a tired gaze, the dark rings around his eyes making the irises glow in an exhausted alarm.

 

 _Go._ Byleistr speaks. _Away from here. Get far away, to anywhere but here._

_Please, go. And never come back._

And with those words, his brother takes his leave.

 

Loki looks down at the broken chain.

 

Pair of sullen green eyes meets his self, and they watch each other in silence. The past and the future mourn with their empty thoughts and the dried out tears, of the small child who had made so many mistakes left for them to suffer, achieving nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Is this the end?_

The Jötunn asks, through the wind and the snow that meets his path. He draws his furred hood up his face, sheltering his sight upon the highest roads up the mountain. His bare feet plough through the snow, the tips of his dark toe nails snap away at the freezing temperature.

Loki stands at the mouth of the sky. His emerald coat covers the lean muscular frame of his body that flutter weakly with the wind; he stands more refined than the shriveled, damaged man walking before him. Their eyes meet for the last time, before Loki is pulled away from his own memories.

The past Loki bids his farewell, disappearing into the snow without even hearing the reply. Only after he fully disappears, into the darkness of the snow and wind does Loki answer his question.

 

_That was only the beginning._

Soon the sky will open again. It will become summer. Back to the land of the golden vanity, Loki does not stop himself when a sharp tug grips the side of his arms. An unfamiliar voice whisper urgently into his head and Loki turns around eagerly.

 

 

 

 

 _Loki._  

_Yes._ He echoes back. _I am here._

 

* * *

 

 

Heat flush into the back of his head. Loki had expected nothing but white when he opened his eyes. In his groggy state of confusion, the man cannot tell all the vibrant colors that pour into his vision as if someone splattered colored ink all across his mind.

 

Loki felt like he was sinking underwater. His body felt nothing but sharp pokes and prickles of pain. Something was drowning out the sound that wished to reach him, and by the time his cloudy sight cleared to show what was in front of him, the voice died away in an urgent groan.

Something warm and strangely soft came inside his arms, and held him desperately. It was a queer sensation, and Loki felt saddened at the touch. Something yet little, but not small, embraced him hard and firm, and all Loki could make out was tufts of soft golden hair.

 

He let out a low grunt, and the strange presence jumps at the sound. He barely makes out the words, and the only recognizable word was his name. It calls as if afraid that he would lose the other, and it felt uncanny to hear his own name called in such way.

“Loki.” It calls.

 

And Loki knows that voice. He remembers it quite clearly too.

“Loki, are you alright?”

 

 

Funny, Loki thinks. He did not realize how much he would end up missing that voice. He was happy to hear them again. And as he slowly closed his eyes again, he whispered something, something which puzzled the boy at his side in a frightened silence.

 

 

 

 

 

“Did you miss me?”

 

 

 

 

 


	7. The immaturity we share

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just you see. Your tricks and craft Loki, my skill will catch up in no time,” he chortles.
> 
> “I rue the day.” Loki snaps back with his cynical remark, “Now get off me Odinson, your father is here to speak.”
> 
> “Good one, I am not falling for the same trick twice.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time had his unusual way of operating.

 

It was different for all the nine realms, a decade upon one branch of the Yggdrasil would mean just a year in another, an hour a month and so on. Some aged slower than the others; some sustained themselves on the vitality that grew on Iðunn’s apples, and they called themselves immortal. Time laughed at such nonsense, he was a fine jerk.

Loki does not remember how much time he has spent lost, wandering inside his own head. When he woke up pushed down in thick blankets and a warm bed, they almost felt strange against his dream ridden skin. It was not his sanctuary that he found himself alive into, but in a private chamber within the healers’ tower.

 

And someone had put flowers beside his bed.

 

Loki made a sound of demise as he went back inside his blankets, shying away from the sun and the all too bright flowers which slowly melted away back into the vase, by his dim green smoke.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I look dead.”

“Nonsense! You look no different than your usual self.”

 

Thor chirped brightly, which made Loki frown. He glanced back at the mirror for a few seconds – in which a gaunt sickly man was staring back - before eyeing Thor again.

“Er. What I mean is, you look alright.”

 

Loki gives him the look.

“I was trying to be positive.” He offers innocently. "The mindset is everything you know."

 

It has been two months and exactly sixteen days since Loki was out. The poison eventually purified itself once they settled into Loki’s bloodstream. They had also, to Loki’s own dismay, shut down most of his body’s will to function properly. For the next few weeks to come, it was evident that Loki was stuck there, in the healers’ tower, gazing at the boring ceiling with nothing much productive to do.

With an extra addition to his discomfort, he was going to have to put up with the random spurts of nosebleeds for a while, which was especially annoying when he was trying to eat his dinner. Frigga visited him at least twice every day, only to witness the green eyes look up at her with a withering expression, blood dripping down his chin and feeling like an idiot.

 

And there was Thor. Thor was Thor.

Loki wished they had picked a better place for him to lay down in peace, Thor barges into his room with a loud bang multiple times throughout the day. It made Loki question the existence of Thor’s friends. The boy certainly had to have better things to do than pester a sick god for stories and share his infuriatingly delicious biscuits.

 

Loki was beginning to notice how old the boy was now. It seemed like only yesterday when the small child first came smashing into his library and now he has grown half a foot taller than he remembered before he collapsed. It was disturbing in its own right.

He tried to keep up with Thor’s age by asking Frigga. His mother was all too happy to reply that he was entering the first stage of maturity. Thor and puberty, _the world is doomed_. Loki thought, placidly looking on as Thor managed to scatter all of the biscuit crumbs on his bed sheets. The boy sat beside him, munching away and oblivious to the distasteful mess he was making.

 

“Father assigned a proper mentor for me, and a few others.” Thor mutters between his biscuits, “One of his generals. I like my sessions with you better though.”

“Oh thank Odin. I was beginning to think your father was trying to dump your education on me.”

“I was a good student was I not?”

 

Loki snorts. He does not see the need to answer it, and he leaves Thor to pout.

“It is better to learn from your father’s men. My style of battle is a lights league away from yours.”

“There is a style for fighting?”

“Oh look, your father is here.” Loki points, eyes wider at the sight behind Thor. The blonde boy takes no second when he whirls around with a smile to greet his father, and sees nothing behind him.

 

He was about to turn back in confusion, but then had to blink down at his empty hand which he swears that he held his last biscuit there before turning around.

Thor was sad. Loki shrugged as he gobbles up the stolen biscuit. “I am the smart one in the battlefield, see.”

 

And with a soft gulp from the last remains of the buttered snack, Thor laughs heartily as he dives forward, tackling Loki. The paler god lets a startled sound escape between his lips when the weight suddenly topples onto him, Thor mocks a playful wrestle as he nuzzles down onto a squirming Loki.

“Just you see. Your tricks and craft Loki, my skill will catch up in no time,” he chortles.

“I rue the day.” Loki snaps back with his cynical remark, “Now get off me Odinson, your father is here to speak.”

“Good one, I am not falling for the same trick twice.”

 

Odin clears his throat. Thor jumps away in surprise, rolling down Loki’s bed and ends up landing face first onto the floor with a dull thud.

It is impressive how fast the boy manages to get back up on his feet, Odin looks amused. And with a brief nod and a goofy grin, the boy god disappears back outside the corridors past his father, leaving Loki to cross his arms with a huff.

 

“Was I interrupting anything?” Odin muses.

“Rescued me, more like.”

“He cares about you. Greatly too, in his own stubborn way.” The older man approaches with a filled glass, Loki takes it with silence. “Stayed by your side every night in the times you were gone.”

 

Pale fingers gently grip around the cup. The liquid is cool and refreshing; it brings comfort down his throat and the insides of his stomach.

“It is encouraging to see you bond.” Odin adds quietly.

 

Loki scoffed.

 

“As if the youthful Borson was not enough, now Odinson comes to destroy me.”

“Like father like son, Loki. You know the sayings.”

“Oh please.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The dwarves are scandalized.

Few of their men, and the representative ambassador, their Lord Sindri were lost amidst the attempted assassination two months ago. Peace seems like a far away concept at this point.

 

Odin’s headache worsens when Eitri recalls all his people in Svartalfar back to Niðavellir, the infinity stone left Malekith’s realm in less than a week with the dwarven miners, who resided at the uru mines in Útgarðar. The dwarf king was getting ready for a war, and the dark elves are not sorry at all.

Malekith was being coy. He was certainly a manipulative bastard as far as Loki could see. They have lost the war, and then sent a group of armed assassins in their delegation for truce. The attackers have committed suicide as soon as their arrows hit Thor, knowing that they have achieved half of what they came for.

 

After the living evidence has all but disappeared, Malekith’s men send their condolences. Odin gripped his spear tight in his hands, fury rising into the deep hem of his throat. The dark elves blame that the attackers were ‘extremists’, and that they acted out of accordance with their king’s wishes.

_"Let bygones be bygones."_

The second messengers arrive with the pardon of their lord a few months later, after Loki was finally allowed out of his sickbed. They arrived saying that the responsible parties have been dealt with. And for the offer of their subjugated truce, they send their noble hostages barely the same age as Thor, to evoke Odin’s empathy.

 

They had the audacity to use their young as political tools. Loki eyes the small elven offspring, in their packs of twos and threes, cowering in the secluded quarters of Odin’s castle, holding each other’s hands. He had no sympathy for the children, but felt appalled all the same.

Thor is upset that his father insists with pressing for truce. They had dared to threaten the royal house and his people, terrorized them with venomous blades and arrows in the summit of a place they have gathered for good will. Thor wanted action, revenge.

 

On the other hand, Loki was torn between war and peace. He could make either sides work for his advantage, but one way or another they had the potential of upsetting Odin. They had already taken in Malekith’s offerings for peace; the hostages vouched for their willingness to discuss terms.

But the problem was the dwarves. Eitri is not happy, and frankly Loki wants no part to flatter him and his desecrate subjects. But they were part of Asgard’s oldest alliances, and providers for uru made weapons and armor.

 

“I suppose this means my vacation is off.”

 

Loki turns away from the windows. He slouches over at the treasures and trinkets that have been stacked inside Odin’s warehouse, and like a crow drawn to a sparkling gem, picks out an obsidian ring encased in an intricate shell of pure silver coiled in the shape of a serpent.

“Ooh. Vanir made.”

“That ring?” Odin questions, glancing up from his atlas. “I do advise you do not touch that. It was part of Fafnir’s treasures, brings ill omens.”

“I do love jewels.” The paler god calls a low whistle; he slides the jewel down his ring finger with ease, much to Odin’s disapproving shake of his head.

 

“Those stubborn creatures will never allow Asgard to commence truce with the dark elves.”

“Which is exactly why I am seeking your council, give us some direction.”

“We can always go to war.” Loki mused.

“Brother.”

 

Odin’s stern gaze drags down at his brother’s vain disregard. Loki gives in, a soft sigh leaving before his voice.

“We can let Eitri decide the terms, on his ground in Niðavellir. He will accept the mediation if we allow the summit to be held in his borders.”

The dwarves were, in Loki’s personal opinion, the most insufferable creatures among the nine realms. Their greedy addiction to the earth that bore them, their pride as the best metal workers allows them a special sense of self-righteousness in divine matters.

 

And Loki attempts to convince himself that the disdain is not polluted by their past misadventures.

“The dark elves will never agree to Eitri’s unreasonable terms.” Odin retorts.

“They will not, but Asgard is the king rooster of this pen, you see. Malekith knows we will pull the string. Eitri is cunning, but,”

Loki frowns, his voice bitter. “The dwarves are easily satisfied with cruel little pleasures.”

 

The All-father keeps his words to himself, eyeing down the atlas with a grim look in his single iris. He knows the brief history between Loki and the dwarf king, and they were not the pleasant of all relationships.

“Lord Malektih’s intentions are clear. He knows that this truce is inevitable, and even though the assassination attempt failed miserably,” the paler man flashes his looks of scorn. “The All-father is still standing by his peace wagon. He wants us to clash with dwarves.”

 

A dry little laugh resonates within the room. And it comes from the chattering magpie.

 

“So alas, I am sorry Borson, but _you lose_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The days to come by were bleak. A peculiar weather has set over Asgard. The summer realm was shrouded in mist that morning. Loki stared out from his towers, an arm extended to waft over the transparent veil in the air.

It was not magic, it was not caused. Curiously, the god blew softly from his lips at the mist gathering in the sky, and then it started to rain. Loki frowned.

 

The pale god sat hanging by his windowsill, watching silently as the drops of water incinerated on the cold dark stone. Soon it poured, the drizzle was ferocious.

 

And for the next three days, Asgard could not see her bright sun, neither her clear blue sky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The rain soaked all his books that were sitting outside the highest room above the stairwell to the crow’s nest. Loki managed to pull the few remaining scripts that were dry out beside his bed, back in his sanctum. The man looked on dryly down at the older texts, one of them was missing an important page.

 

“Learn how to knock, little prince.”

The green eyed god states, his eyes still on the ripped out pages. Thor remains silent, brows furrowed as he watches the long finger fondle the leather parchment. The boy was soaking wet, dripping with raindrops all over the floor.

 

Loki lifted his gaze up for a few seconds to meet eyes with a silent Thor, his blonde hair sagged and stuck to his face, eyes cast downwards.

The rain still tears down outside. The sound of them battering the roof is distracting, but not loud. They are never loud, _his_ rain never was, because what comes after them had to be louder. The two gods remained speechless, motionless in their quiet solitude of thoughts.

 

“You are leaving.” Said the prince.

Thor can see the other lift up an eyebrow; he receives a nod in the place of an answer.

 

“Take me with you.”

It was darker when the mist cleared, Loki notices. The boy looked a lot like Odin when he stood in the shadows with a solemn face.

 

“Water is fertility Odinson. Better be careful with how much you pour it down.”

And with that, Loki simply turns his eyes back down to the book.

 

“Do not ignore me Loki. I demand that I go too.”

A drop of water falls from the soft skin of his chin. Not yet a man, but not still a child. Loki has no choice but to put down his book, responding to the prince’s forced out command. They lock their gazes for the few breaths that follow, and then Loki extends a hand.

 

Thor does not want to meet his hand. As if afraid that like the blurry image in an endless desert, the man would disappear if he came closer, touched his hand and enclosed it around his fingers. The prince stays firm in his place, until Loki sighs as he slid off from his bed to approach Thor.

“Is this what that was all about?” Loki mutters, his chin sharply indicating the rain outside. “That you are miserable about your father leaving you here alone again?”

The boy does not reply to anything, his mouth shut tight in a firm line of defiance. Loki lifts up the hems of his coat, smothering the younger god in his clothes to wipe his face dry. Thor squirms lightly, not entirely willing to get away from Loki’s grip.

 

“It is not going to be a merry ride Thor, it is a political mission.” The paler god murmurs on, drying out the straw colored hair between his ruffling fingers. Thor eyes him back, the blue in his eyes darker in a miserable shade.

“We are marching into a potential war.”

 

“Then why must you go as well?”

Loki rolled his eyes, letting go of Thor once he was finished wiping away the last of the rain.

 

“Because, I am the best silver tongue your father has to offer up on a silver platter.”

Thor cannot help but let out a bitter chuckle escape his lips. His reddened nose feels drier; the boy glances up and manages to pull his face into a tight grin.

 

“You will return soon, right?”

Thor looked hopeful.

 

“Oh, you will probably see me by the end of next week, all battered up and feeling misogynistic. I assure you.”

Loki was a good liar.

 

The boy god held up his finger, forcing it to lock into Loki’s own ones. The older god did not pull away, Thor’s appendage held his place beside the silver right on his fifth. Loki looked curiously down at this little sign. The Midgardians often engaged in such interactions when making vows.

 

“Promise me you will return in time for my coming of age ceremony.”

“But I wanted to be fashionably late.”

“Just promise me Loki.” Thor retorts stubbornly.

 

The greens on his eyes do not betray anything. The sincerity in the boy’s voice was scratching an odd direction upon Loki’s subconscious coin. Thor waited through the silence with patience, and soon Loki bent his little finger, locking it around softly with Thor’s.

 

“I promise.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Two crows and a hawk were released into the sky the day the sun rose with his sister moon. The sickly goddess of the moon came out beside her brother in the silver chariot to bid Odin and his smaller battalion of soldiers her goodbye.

The sky was still a depressing grey. The armor on his body groaned as the pouring rain drowned its shine. Loki looked upwards from his horse and wondered if it was natural this time. Towards the sky he saw the two crows flutter away into the murky clouds, the lingering rain unstopping for their march to the bifrost.

 

The rain was not cold. It felt soft and dim, like a lifeless being. Soon the thunder strikes, a storm gathering over the golden wonder of Asgard. Odin turns his head atop his steed, as Loki halts behind him to stare at the bolt of lightning crashing above the sky.

 

“Come Loki.” Odin echoes. “The day is short.”

 

Loki nods.

The god soon turns his back on the vain realm, disappearing into the bifrost.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A place can feel different without its owner. Surroundings often grow similar to their holders.

Thor had no specific reason to linger around the empty tower, the growling flame no longer present in the fireplace. The hearth was empty, an abandoned iron rod poking out from the ashes.

 

It was dark inside the tower room. Strange, the boy thinks, he never realized it was that dark. No, not when the other god was there. The boy prince sat down beside the pile of books, upon the velvet cushions no longer warm.

 

He sat there, quiet. For a long time.

He listens to the rain that does not stop, outside the open windows.

 

“Don’t go.”

 

The thunder roars, drowning the small little whisper without mercy. As if it never should have been said out aloud. The boy gains enough confidence from his own bellowing thunder and rain, the frosted wind humming at his back.

_I don’t want to miss you._

 

 

 

Thor closed his eyes in the serene silence.

 

 

 

 

 

It was disturbing to realize that this time he was not upset about being alone.

 

 

 

 

 

But being without Loki.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. The things you cannot say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some reasons hurt others. Some reasons were left unknown because that was what kept everything together. So Thor never asked Odin the reason why Loki had said those things, and ignored that bitter sadness which flashed beneath those masked green eyes.
> 
>  
> 
> Instead, Thor decided that whatever he found to like, was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for your kudos.  
> I was surprised to receive such positive feedback comments, I appreciate you guys very much.
> 
> I am trying to write a better synopsis, and edit a few bits of the first chapters (they were written during the sleepless morning of my finals exam, and god Jesus Christ there were some terrifying grammar mistakes all over the place), I will probably continue editing this story thoroughly once certain parts are finished. Cheers for the patience.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For as long as he can remember, there was always a gentle musk of something creamy lingering around his world.

 

The first time Thor had held in the scent, was a time he does not remember. It was the day he was born, when he first came out into the world. He remembers his mothers scent, the tangy light sweetness of rose petals and honey. Then there was something like a splash of cold water.

They were the fingers, the coldest, and the longest that he remembers from anyone. They did not have the scent of flowers, but carried a waft of something sharp and poisonous. And Thor grew to learn that poisonous apparels were sometimes the most appealing of things. A babe could not fathom what was good, or bad.

 

The babe decides that whatever he finds to like, is good.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thor loved his realm and its proud golden sunlight. His father, the king All-father had said when he was but little, that one day he will become the next king to protect this world. The highest upon the Yggdrasil sat his kingdom; his people the Æsir loved him like no other.

 

_Why second in line to the throne? Am I not the first and only?_

The boy had once asked. His question directed towards his pale, green eyed god that the others had called Loki. Loki the tale weaver, brother to his father, the one and only god in the realm to never have loved him.

 

He would sit by the wide windowsill of his grim tower, a book in his hand with too less pictures. His long slim fingers tender upon the pages, neck bent against the furred collar of his emerald black coat. Thor would sit under the window, beneath Loki, scratching his head at the picture books that he managed to scavenge out of the library.

Loki did not respond immediately to the question, like he always did with Thor. It was as if he was reasoning with himself on whether he should respond at all. Thor watched on as the single leg that swung out against the wall stopped moving, he felt a peculiar urge to wrap his fingers around that white anklebone. It was tempting, a curiosity which Thor could not put a name to it.

 

_You are the heir apparent. But you are also second in line, because your father succeeded the throne by unconventional methods._

Thor frowned, Odin have never really talked about his father before. The boy god knew little about who his grandfather was. Loki shrugged at the clouding confusion in the boy’s stark blue eyes.

 

_It was a complicated time for us all, hard for me to explain._

The book cover is shut with a thud. Thor cannot hold his question unsaid in his lips, and blurts it out without thought.

_Why was my father afraid you will kill me?_

Thor could almost feel the back of his neck prickle with a strange sharpness, as the man turned his eye over his shoulder to meet his own blue. Loki smiles, but his eyes do not. The edges of his lips crawl upwards, and Thor forgets how to blink.

 

_Ask him. Ask your father why._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes Thor imagined of breaking Loki’s wrists.

 

And soon he was jolting upright, disturbed by his own thoughts. He watched in an eerie silence that floated aimlessly between himself and the sleeping frame of Loki, the cold fire dying inside the ash. The last of the flames licked at the air for a few seconds before it went out. His chest was rising so slowly, it looked like he was dead. It alarmed Thor slightly, so the boy took the man’s hand into his own.

The fingers on those cold hands were always bloodless, frozen like the snow Thor has read about in books. Thor drew his eyes over the protruding lines of the knuckles, concave where the hand met the wrist around the carpal bones. It stuck out between his slender frame, tinted violet and blue.

 

It was a soft, gentle nudge at first. The coolness he feels at the tips of his fingers was all too familiar to be called foreign. Thor carefully coils his smaller fingers around the thin hand, drawing it close.

It was not like he had a cruel intention for wanting to do so, or malice, Thor did not want to cause pain. He had no intention to hurt Loki. No, that was not the reason why he imagined such things. It was a far different reason which he would come to understand in time, but not immediately then. He would not be strong enough, yet anyway. The boy sighed, pulling the hand close against his nose, and breathed in quietly.

 

And there it was.

That scent. Heavy with musk, creamy and deep, _poisonous_ , burning grape vines.

 

 

His cheeks felt hotter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When you punch, you punch hard. Like you mean it, or never punch at all. That was what Sif said.

 

Breathing hurts his lungs when adrenaline rushes in. Blood pours into his ears when the sound follows, returning afterwards when he realizes that his knuckles hurt like the two hells. Thor finds himself panting over the other boy’s body, fingers tight clad around the neck of his shirt. He sees the broken nose, the reddened gums, and the cowering eyes.

 

Thor knows how to hiss. He had a good teacher. He seethes, pulling his mouth back into a snarl.

 

“Never, insult my father’s brother, ever again.”

He leaves the older boy to nod, frantic in his understanding.

 

 

 

 

“You never call him uncle.” Sif pondered, swinging her sword in the air in sharp elegant lines.

Thor shrugs at that, and by the time he finds a suitable answer, Sif overtakes him with another set of words. “You need to stop physically tackling down everyone who says those things.”

 

“But they insulted the royal house!”

“Thor.” Sif turns, her sword dropping in vexation. “Like it or not, they are going to become your future subjects. Not everyone can have the same opinion on people. Besides, that was not the first, Loki prefers to ignore them.”

 

“He is my friend. Part of my family.”

“I know.”

 

Sif did her best to explain a concept far more advanced than she would be able to express. In truth, the girl had little idea of how things with Loki worked. People all had something to say about the man, there must even had been conspiracy theories based on his existence.

“But next time, it would help if you can correct them with words, rather than introducing them your fist first.”

Thor watched solemnly as Sif went back to swinging her sword. He gave off a short grunt, before tending his attention back to the split knuckles on his hand. “Some people can keep their opinions to themselves.”

 

The girl warrior in training pretended not to hear her prince mutter in a low voice, rolling her eyes. It was until that she heard nothing afterwards that she looked back in concern, and was stopped. Thor did not meet her gaze. He looked down, at his feet in a glum silence.

 

“I miss Loki.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thor can never ask that question to his father.

 

He will probably never be able to ask it. The boy was allergic to fear, being afraid was worse than losing. Loki had said to always give a chance, that all reasons must be heard. Although Thor found it hard to keep up with such teachings, there were some things that he thought were better unheard.

Some reasons hurt others. Some reasons were left unknown because that was what kept everything together. So Thor never asked Odin the reason why Loki had said those things, and ignored that bitter sadness which flashed beneath those masked green eyes.

 

Instead, Thor decided that whatever he found to like, was good.

If Loki had truly meant to harm him, he would not have saved his life. Loki would have never endured that pain for his sake. Loki would have never come for him when he got lost inside the black tower, Loki would never have taught him how to fight. Loki would never have stayed beside him when he was sick with a fever, he would never have healed his cuts and bruises whenever he came to him after a fight or an accident.

 

There would not have been that pleasant aroma of milk and cream, the scent of poisonous grapes, lingering around his world.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Time flies like a scoundrel.

 

Sometimes Frigga would read stories, tell him about the old tales. He would admit that Loki was the best when it came to telling a story, but he loved his mother’s just as much. There were differences of course, while Loki knew the stories of monsters and warriors, of cunning sorcerers, traitors, proud kings and war, his mother told of strange things which she called love.

He knew of the tales of a man named Tristan, of a maiden named Isolde. Hundreds and thousands of others like him. Love stories unfamiliar to gods, but gift from the mortal men who lived in Midgard. Earth was such a curious place, Thor always thought.

 

And sometimes he would look up at his mother, eyes down on her book, and interrupt her story with questions that were beginning to form inside his mind.

“What does love feel like?”

 

And Frigga smiled. She was younger when Odin started courting her. He was younger back then too. The young god king had a short beard on his chin, hair golden and eyes like the sky of their realm. She could imagine her son, when he grew up, looking something similar to his father. They shared such a likeness.

“They say it is different for everyone.” Frigga attempts to answer, smiling warmly. “I do not know for sure, perhaps you will be able to describe it when you become older.”

“I love you, and father. Does that count?”

“I suppose it does.”

 

It leaves Thor more unsatisfied than content. The boy tilts his head, eyes darting to the side of his mother’s face.

“Different, maybe.” The goddess chuckles, “You will get there one day. I do hope though, that whichever maiden you chose to love, will be the one to make you happy.”

Thor imagined himself in such position. His expression scrunched up between some hard thoughts of holding another girl’s hands, his insides felt uncomfortable at that. Frigga noticed him twiddling his thumbs, weaving in unsure patterns.

 

“Did Loki ever love someone?”

 

Almost immediately, Thor regretted asking the question. The boy was not sure why he felt the wave of regret, and felt an urge to block out his ears. For now, he would blame a childish emotion for such reaction. But the answer did not come. Thor disliked that little part of himself which felt relief at his mother’s uncertain silence.

 

“We are not sure.” She answered. And Frigga meant her words. In fact, she had never seen the ebony haired god take affection to anything, or anyone. Indeed, Loki had his own favorites when it came to preferences, like how his familiar always retained the shape of a giant she-wolf, like how his distinct illusions and apparitions came in the shape of snakes and magpies.

Loki never shared affection, closed his doors and built up his walls whenever it came to him. As if he was incapable of understanding the emotion at all. As if he did not wish to become any part of such an abysmal matter they call love. This concerned Frigga sometimes.

 

If it was neither love nor hate, then what did Thor mean to him? What were the reasons the god of lies and stories would have for putting his life out for Odin’s son? Frigga could only hope that the reasons were less cold than they would seem to be without the layer of pretext.

 _No,_ Frigga frowned. She would snap herself out of those dark thoughts. She was starting to realize her mind was beginning to think like the other accusers of Loki’s loyalty. Doubt is never healthy. Without trust there was no family.

 

“Although,” The All-mother speaks, the ends of her sentence faltering in the sudden recollection. “There was a witch, named Angrboða. Loki travelled with her, after the battle in Jötunheim.”

 

Thor blinked up at his mother. Her eyes were clouded by something unreadable, something he could not distinguish with his level of perception. Something strange crawled up at the back of his neck, and Thor found it an unpleasant sensation.

“That was the closest anyone has gotten to be beside him, except your father.”

 

It was a green emotion. And the boy was unfamiliar with it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Heimdall has no news of Odin and his company of soldiers ever since the red moon obstructed the view. It must be something interfering with his vision, and it was powerful. The older of his generals whispered that it must have been the infinity stone, and the last of what Thor was able to hear about his father was that the summit did not end well.

Thor remained behind even after the others have started heading back towards the palace, eyes stern across the opaque shape of the bifrost. Heimdall looked on at the same distance, his eyes glowing golden. Thor sniffed indifferently.

 

“Do you see Loki?”

“Nothing now, my prince.” The vigilant guardian replies. “Perhaps soon.”

Mildly amused, the ebony guardian tilts his eyes towards the prince. Everyone had expected their prince to grow into a fine young man.

 

And he was growing indeed. Stories of his valiant skills were reaching across the kingdom; the boy was now taller, built on the inheritance of his father. When the boyish features have left his face, Frigga was bringing attention to the need of his grooming now that his stubble began to appear. The teenage prince of Asgard was becoming restless in his youthful vigor.

Heimdall often saw the prince venture out to the outskirts of the citadel, and the forbidden forests in his hunt and patrol around the kingdom’s walls. He had his own band of friends that accompanied him in those short trips, and it took time for Frigga to acknowledge that his son was now transitioning into a young man, letting him free from the reigns of childhood.

And he would come, almost every day, asking for the news of his father and Loki. Sometimes he would ask about Loki, first. Thor looked more concerned as the months passed by, his boyhood worries turning more sincere as he grew. There was a genuine hint of somber misery in his eyes, Heimdall could not help but offer his monotone comfort.

 

“They are fine.” He assures.

Thor turns his gaze, a light grin flashing between his lips. “How do you tell?”

“Your sorcerer is unique.” Heimdall nods, meeting the princes’ gaze. “He will make sure no harm comes their way.”

 

Content washes over the face of his prince. The young god of thunder allows himself to smile, despite how such words lacked logic and much of their sense. Albeit considerable, Thor mused in his head. _My sorcerer._ He mouthed.

His sorcerer. Thor breathed in the words deeply, a silent murmur escaping his lips.

 

 

_My Loki._

* * *

 

 

 

It was one cycle of the moon before the day celebrated his official coming of age. His people had no time to look forward to the upcoming event, a crow came crashing onto the bifrost with a broken wing.

 

The black feathers attached to his span were falling out, Huginn croaked helplessly in the hands of Heimdall, who announced to the remaining generals within the citadel that the situation has turned for the worse in Niðavellir. Their guardian of the bifrost could not see what was taking place in the realm of the dwarves, but Huginn had enough information to let the others know that the mediation was going terribly.

A skirmish broke out between the two offending parties, the All-father and his soldiers caught in between. The rest of the message was incapable of being deciphered, and even Frigga was struggling to decode the whispering of Odin’s crow.

 

Although they could not read the entire message Huginn has brought flying across the rainbow bridge, the high council has decided to quickly dispatch the reinforcements across the realm. Relief was being prepared for the next marching. Thor’s academic training sessions were withheld due to most of its generals volunteering to return to the field.

Sif was sitting in the empty fountain side, reading a parchment she found on her father’s desk the morning recruitment letters was delivered. Father was sure to go; he marched out just past noon to the armory.

 

“Sif!”

The maiden warrior looks up from her papers, unsurprised to find Thor jumping over the fence and jogging into the hanging gardens. The young god had his face in a grin, the brightness of it was all too threatening for Sif who knew that smile meant nothing but another really dangerous idea.

 

“I want you to cover for me.”

“Pardon me, my prince?” Sif retorts, missing enough details to look puzzled. This does nothing to discourage Thor, who puts his hands on both of her shoulders in the most entrusting way possible.

“Tell my mother that I have decided to go camping.” Thor states.

“What?” Sif blurts.

“In the woods, somewhere.” The prince continues, arms flinging carelessly outwards to somewhere beyond. “Outside the walls of the citadel to hunt a pink bear, or something. Anything.”

 

Sif wants to ask what this madness is, she really wishes she could. But that assuring look in Thor’s eyes are infuriating to meet with. It was as if Thor was putting his world into her hands, and that kind of trust tended to make one feel like she should not ask questions.

“You are not going in a hunting trip my prince, I can tell. You want me to lie to the queen?”

“On my behalf. I will take full responsibility when I come back, I swear by my honor lady Sif.”

 

That skeptic look never left the lady’s face, but Thor was already giving a big slap on her shoulders like he would a trusted friend. Sif really had nothing to say to that, except raise her eyebrows in concern.

“No, really, tell me where you are going. I promise I will not tell the All-mother.”

“Sif.” Thor answers. “I am going to Niðavellir.”

 

And with that, Thor runs off.

Sif is left with her mouth hanging open.

 

 

“What?” She shouted after him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The bifrost opens with a cackling of the lights. The bridge opens to let the marching soldiers into the other side, armed with spears and shields of blazing gold and fiery metallic orange. The uru blinds out everything that reflects from the rainbows, the mares stamp their hind legs to signal the beginnings of a long march ahead.

 

The Archons stand by the procession, their atlas handed over to the leading general with Huginn’s guidance of the men at front. Rows and rows of soldiers march onward, to aid their king by his side in the battlefield.

Heimdall watches as the bifrost remains open, the army marching into the light. He had neither thoughts nor problems passing through his guideless pupils until he stopped sharp at a peculiar flank of soldiers march past his sight.

 

A soldier, slightly shorter than the others marching between the ranks caught his eye. Heimdall could not tell why he was so striking in his vision, seemed so familiar, almost too familiar that he almost closed the bifrost in alarm. He had the whole of his head covered in the ceremonial helm of Asgardian soldiers, a spear in his hand like the others.

 

 

Through the eye piece of the helm, Heimdall could have sworn he saw the clearest of blues, the color of their sky.

 

And before he could even project his voice to be heard, the eccentric soldier disappeared beyond the bifrost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heimdall closed his eyes in forfeit.

 

_Oh, gods of gods._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
